


Send In The Clowns

by xanderwilde



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Arkham Asylum, Codependency, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Internal Conflict, Lovers To Enemies, Mental Breakdown, Obsessive Behavior, Other, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Relationship(s), Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanderwilde/pseuds/xanderwilde
Summary: He held up a hand to halt any further blustering excuses and Harleen shut her mouth with a snap to prevent any further embarrassment. Like it could get worse than this. “Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing to meet someone who’s not trying to kiss up to me all the time. You’d better not start now that you know who I am.”Some of her shattered dignity restored, Harleen lifted her chin. She had already messed up, it wasn’t like she could do anything worse. Besides, the odds of them meeting again were probably zero to none. “No fear of that, Mr. Wayne.”He smiled. “Please, call me Bruce.”





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

“It’s a long way down.” They stood facing each other on the edge of the roof, twenty stories above the tumultuous cityscape below; taxis inching their way around swarms of jaywalkers, impatient drivers honking their horns, street vendors shouting at the tourists, the occasional whine of a police siren. 

“Well _duh_.” She glanced over the edge, then back at her companion. “Does that bother you? You scared?”

He ignored the question. “Where is he?”

“That’s why you wanted to talk? Jeez, Bats, can’t a girl do something on her own for once? And here I thought you were just being nice and comin’ to talk.”

Batman kept his eyes fixed on her as she walked along the roof’s edge, perfectly balanced. “You’ve never been known to act alone before.”

She turned to face him, and for a split second there was something like regret in her eyes. “Maybe I’m not planning on doing anything wrong.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“About as far as I could throw you.” 

She smiled at him. “Like you said, it’s a long way down. Throw away. I’ve always wanted to see if I could fly.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you’re doing?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then turned her back to him and sat down on the ledge jutting out above the city streets below. Batman tensed, ready to reach out and grab her if she tried to push herself off. “Sure is a pretty night.”

He stepped closer, keeping her in arm’s reach. “You know what will happen if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

She glanced over her shoulder and pouted at him. “Back to the nut house, I know. You think that scares me?”

“I know you’d rather not go back.”

She turned away from him, staring back out over the city skyline. “You don’t know anything about me. Not anymore.”

He strained to catch the last two words. “What did you say?”

She flashed a smile but he couldn’t see it. “Nothin’.”

“You’re not leaving me much of a choice, Harley.”

She leaned back on her wrists and the wind blew the ends of her blonde pigtails into her face. Tossing her head to clear her vision, she blinked. “I haven’t done anything wrong, honest. I just wanted to take a walk. Get out for a little while.” 

“You’re not creating a diversion while your boyfriend shoots up a hospital or something?” 

She tried to suppress a frown. “Boy, have you got a way with words.”

“Answer me straight and answer me now, or we’re done talking.”

She swung her legs back and forth, staring unfazed at the ground below. “I already told you, nothing’s happening. I wanted a breath of fresh air. Not that you’re helping.”

“And you’re not acting accomplice to anything?”

“Well, not right _now._ Probably later, but that’s the way it goes, ya know? It’s how we roll.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get preachy on me now, Bats?” She spun around, tucking her legs underneath her. “Think you can soften me up, talk me out of this life of crime? You think you know all my secrets, but let me tell you something.” Standing up, she walked over until they were mere inches apart. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re not the only one.”

He stared down at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I know things that you don’t know I know.” She was still whispering. “About you. About _both_ of you.”

“You’ll have to explain that more in depth.” He kept a wary eye on her in case she decided to produce a gun or knife from somewhere. She smiled.

“You and the _other_ you.” Beneath the cowl, Batman frowned. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. “Come on, don’t try to hide it. You know who I am, it’s only fair it should go both ways.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Who you _really_ are,” She tapped the bat emblem on his chest. “beneath all that getup. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone and I won’t tell anyone now.”

“Tell them what, Harley?” His voice rose in exasperation and he just barely kept it from being a shout. She put a finger to her lips.

“Shh. Don’t be mad. You should be grateful I haven’t given you away,” she rose to tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “ _Bruce_.”


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Three Years Earlier**

 

_Nerves are a funny thing,_ she thought, watching her knee bounce up and down as she sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that lined the wall of the room outside the office. _They take hold of you over the silliest things. It’s a job, for goodness sake, not a court hearing or something._

Still, as she clutched the slim manila folder in one hand and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt with the other, her practical thoughts did nothing to stop the onslaught of anxiety that shot through her like electricity, prickling her skin and tensing her muscles. To distract herself, she stared at the pictures that lined the wall, then at the others waiting in the room with her. They were probably nervous too, she tried to reassure herself. But they didn’t _look_ nervous. They looked experienced. Clearly this was not taking her mind off things.

Before she could find something else to focus her attention on, the office door swung open and an intern peeked out. “Harleen Quinzel?”

She jumped to her feet much too eagerly, then paused before speaking to make up for it. “That’s me.” _Ugh, I sound like a kid. A little, inexperienced kid who has no chance whatsoever at this._

“Doctor Leland is ready for your interview.” 

She flashed him a quick, tense smile. _Why did she have to pick me first? She’ll forget about me by the time she interviews all these people who are actually qualified._ She picked up her purse (it matched her grey suit; her mom had given it to her last Christmas) and followed the intern down the hall. Her heels clicked loudly against the polished wooden floor and she gritted her teeth at the sound. It was like gunshots in the quiet building. 

The intern, oblivious to her discomfort, opened the door with the plaque reading “Doctor Joan Leland, M.D.” Harleen hesitated, then stepped in. The door shut behind her and she almost jumped at the sound.

“Good morning, Miss Quinzel.” Leland was sitting behind her desk, which was covered in neatly arranged stacks of files. Harleen’s gaze flitted over several watermarked résumés, and she was suddenly very unsure of the one sitting in the folder she held. It wasn’t even printed on very nice paper…

“Have a seat.” The psychoanalyst motioned for her to sit down on the chair opposite her, and Harleen obeyed. “So I hear you are interested in working for me, is that right?” Her voice was warm and kinder than Harleen was expecting, and the slightest amount of nerves vanished. 

“I would really like to complete my third year of residency with you.” She kept her voice lower than usual, remembering how one particularly unkind professor in medical school told her she still sounded like a ten-year-old. “I…I have my qualifications here…” She awkwardly passed the manila folder to Leland, who opened it and glanced over the papers inside. 

“I see you graduated college in two years rather than four.”

Harleen nodded. “Well, I took college courses when I was in high school, and then in the summers…”

“It’s very impressive. And you were a freshman at seventeen, is that right?”

Harleen thought back to that time, of how intimidated she was by all the older kids, how she was sure she would never get good enough grades to pass any of her classes. “Yes.”

“What was your major? It doesn’t say here. Some sort of science?”

Her cheeks grew hot. “Um, athletic training. So, lots of biology and stuff like that.” _You’re just going to lie to her like that? You went to college to be a gymnast and would’ve gotten out of there in two years if you’d had your way._ Leland couldn’t know that. Harleen added, “Kind of like physical therapy.” _Kind of? You took one PT class as a requirement._

Fortunately, Leland took no notice of Harleen’s blundering explanation. “And then on to medical school? It says here you spend three years there before moving on to residency.”

She nodded. “Yes. I worked summers then, too.” _And lost your mind in the process,_ she thought sarcastically. _Harleen, don’t forget to study. Harleen, you’d better not fail this class. Oh Harleen, why don’t you ever go out with your friends anymore? As if._

“You’re clearly a very dedicated young woman.” Leland said admiringly. Harleen forced a smile. The nerves were kicking back in full force. “You do know that we usually don’t hire anyone who hasn’t completed their residency though, right?”

Her stomach twisted into a knot and her mouth went dry. “I know. I…I just thought…”

“Of course, you do have a long list of admirable qualities in your academic profile.” Leland went on. “It’s just not usually something we do.”

“I understand…I didn’t mean…”

“I’ll tell you what.” Leland closed the file and laced her fingers, smiling at Harleen. “Let’s talk about what you want to do as a third-year residency student at Arkham, how that might work out, and then I’ll get back to you in a little while?”  
Harleen let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Oh, thank you…”

Leland held up a hand, forestalling any further gratitude. “Hypothetically, if you were to come work with us at the asylum, you would work for me. You’d have your own office and you could conduct your own patient sessions, but all reports and info would go directly to me.”

“Yes.”

“Now, you’re a third-year, so you would have to be very independent in your work. Arkham is not a pretty place, Miss Quinzel, and neither is Gotham City.”  
“I can handle Gotham. I grew up there.” Even retained the accent, which she had learned to hide over the years. 

Just another part of her she’d been shamed into changing.

“A lot has changed since you’ve been there, I’ll bet. We now have flying vigilantes, rival gangs who basically control half the city each, and a slew of metahumans who have cropped up in the past few years.”

She chewed her lip for a moment before remembering she was wearing lipstick. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying you can’t handle it, but it’s a lot to take in, especially for someone your age. You don’t have much experience with criminal psychiatry.”

She nodded. “I know. But it’s what I want to do when I have my license, so I thought Arkham would be…”

“Like I said, you have plenty of academic qualifications.” Leland tapped the folder on the desk. “But working at Arkham is no easy task. Even the most experienced psychoanalysts sometimes quit after one session with a patient.”

Harleen was silent. She knew Arkham’s reputation, but there was no other way to rebuild her crumbling persona in the medical world. Words like “unreliable” and “cheat” had begun to circulate, and she’d had to step up her game during that last year of med school to not get expelled. Even then, more than one professor had encouraged her to consider switching careers (“Did you ever think about going back to gymnastics?” “The academics only get more difficult, and we just don’t want you to be overwhelmed.”) and she would have, if she wasn’t afraid of losing face in front of everyone she knew. She couldn’t bear the thought of people talking about her over dinner, saying things like, “Did you know Harleen quit med school? Apparently it was too tough for her” or “I always knew she wouldn’t make it far.” 

That could never happen.

“However,” Leland continued, snapping Harleen out of her thoughts, “I won’t completely disregard you. I will let you know what we decide as soon as possible, and I look forward to potentially working with you.” She stood up and extended her hand. Harleen parroted her movement and shook her hand, gathering up her purse. She steeled herself for the sound of her heels clacking on the floor again, but kept a serene expression. _If she sees how nervous you are, she’ll never hire you._ “Thank you so much, Doctor Leland.” she said sincerely, and the other woman nodded.

“Anytime.”

Harleen didn’t breathe freely until she was out of the building. She pulled on her grey wool gloves and let the crisp autumn air cool her flaming face. It had been painful lying to Leland like that, but otherwise she would never get the position. And besides, she hadn’t _really_ been lying, had she? Sure, she’d glossed over stuff like she’d almost gotten kicked out of school, or that her bachelor degree was absolutely unrelated to psychiatry in any way, but those didn’t matter. It was behind her now, and she had her whole life to look forward to. Right? It wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it gave her a better shot at this job. 

She unlocked her car and got in, resting her head on the steering wheel. With the interview over, the anxiety had washed away, leaving her exhausted. She could fall asleep right here and not wake up for twelve hours. But she had places to be, and besides, this was Gotham City. Not a pretty place, like Doctor Leland had said, and certainly not a place to fall asleep in your car. With a designer purse like hers sitting in the passenger seat, she was a sitting duck for a break-in. With a sigh, she sat up and put the key in the ignition, pulling out into the street amid the sea of taxis. 

_Well, that’s over with. At least for now._ She glanced back at the office building, and then at the asylum that loomed up behind it in the distance. Despite her persistent disinterest in her work, seeing the place in person sparked something foreign inside her, something she hadn’t felt before.

For the first time in years, she wanted to do something with her life. Something that mattered. Something that would make a difference. Harleen eyed the asylum defiantly, daring it to keep her away.

_Somehow, I’m making my way into there. For better or worse._


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**  
**  

The apartment building was only five stories high, but standing on the edge of the roof, staring down at the crowded streets below, Harleen felt like she was balancing on the spire of the Empire State Building. She had never been afraid of heights, but there was a certain point where instincts kicked in and her nerves rebelled against her fearlessness. She stepped back, not so close to the edge.

The night air was colder up here, much colder than down below, where it was tinged with the steam and grime of the city, and it brought a stinging glow to Harleen’s cheeks. She tightened the scarf around her neck and stretched her arms to relieve them of their tension. She had only just moved into the apartment two weeks before, and already the roof was her favorite place to be. Despite abandoning her gymnast dreams in college, she couldn’t help but hone her skills whenever she could, if only out of an almost desperate sense to cling on to who she really was. Everyone wanted her to be the intellectual doctor, the skilled psychoanalyst just like her father, and what could she do about that now? She had slipped too far down that rabbit hole to escape it. 

But somewhere inside, hidden safely away, was that incessant desire that only she was privy to. She didn’t want to be a doctor…she knew she wasn’t smart enough for that. Even if she was, she wasn’t motivated enough. She didn’t want any of the acclaim, any of the titles. She just wanted to be happy. Maybe do gymnastics for a little while, then meet some man who would be the love of her life and settle down. Maybe have a family. 

But she had left that dream behind long ago. And what could she do about it now? 

A long water pipe stretched across the rooftop and Harleen swung her body up onto it with practiced grace and fluidity. She stood up on the smooth, rounded surface and walked across it, staring out across the city. Her new home. She remembered the days she spent growing up here, before her parents moved to her grandfather’s house in the country when he died. They were much happier there, at least her parents were. But Harleen loved the constant motion and energy of the city. It was always alive, even at night, and that energy channeled itself into her like electricity. If there was anything good about this doctor gig, it was going back to Gotham.

A sharp flapping noise from behind startled her and she jumped, slipping off the pipe. She just barely landed on her feet, and swung around to see what had caused the sound, remembering suddenly she hadn’t thought to bring any pepper spray with her. It was tucked safely away in her apartment. She balled her hands into fists and glanced around.

A figure was running across the rooftop, a black shapeless thing (a _cape?)_ billowing out from its shoulders. Harleen stared after it, wide-eyed. Without noticing her, the figure leapt from the edge of the roof and disappeared. 

Harleen stifled a yelp of surprise and rushed to the side of the roof, staring down into the darkness. Her heart was pounding in her throat and her hands had grown clammy. Without warning, the figure shot up out of the darkness, right in front of her. The cape spread like a pair of enormous, pitch-black wings and she could see it was holding a grapple hook in one hand, the wire connected to the adjoining building. She stumbled back, still staring as the figure seemed to fly up and out of sight. 

Her breath came in gasps and suddenly seemed very loud. Clamping her mouth shut, Harleen ran to the door leading back into the building and hurried down the stairs. Her heart throbbed in her ears and her steps were shaky. _What was that thing?_ It had no face, no form, it made no sound. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and slowed her pace. Her thoughts were becoming less jumbled and frantic, and she took a deep breath.

_Okay. Think rationally. It was probably just a sheet or something that blew off someone’s clothesline. It’s windy outside, that could happen. Right?_

_But why,_ her mind argued, _did it have a grapple hook?_

_Just your imagination. Thinking you saw one when there was nothing there._

_You know what you saw._

A young couple passed by Harleen in the hallway and the woman glanced at her, her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Are you okay, miss?” she asked hesitantly. Harleen straightened up and dropped her hands to her sides.

“Y-yes,” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I’m okay.” She licked her lips, then it all came out in a rush. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I just saw something on the roof. I don’t know what it was, but it was big and it looked like a ghost dressed in black. I know it’s insane, but…”

“You saw the Batman?” the other woman interrupted, her own eyes growing huge. Harleen stared.

“What?” 

The couple glanced at each other and the man raised an eyebrow at her, “You haven’t been in Gotham very long, have you?”

“I just moved in. I lived here when I was a kid, but…”

“Then you don’t know about the Bat. Boy, you must’ve lived out in nowhere to not know about him.”

“I don’t really watch the news…” Harleen’s head was spinning with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“No one knows who the Batman is,” the woman explained. “He goes after the criminals the police can’t catch and he’s never been caught himself.”

“You mean he’s a vigilante?” 

“Sure. No one knows exactly what he is. But he does more good than harm, so we’re okay with it.” Their faces showed identical expressions of what could almost be classified as reverence. 

“Oh. Well, thank you.” Harleen gave them one last look, then hurried off down the hall toward her apartment, digging around in her pocket for the keys. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, slumping down on the floor with her back against the wall and closing her eyes. She was still breathing hard, trying to gather her wits about her.

“The Batman.” she whispered. Something Doctor Leland had said the other day echoed in her mind and she frowned.

_“We now have flying vigilantes, rival gangs who basically control half the city each, and a slew of metahumans who have cropped up in the past few years.”_

So that’s what that was about. Now that she knew what had raced across the roof in front of her eyes was, her fear began to dissipate. But she was still trembling, and to distract herself she switched on the television to the local news channel. A tinny voice of a reported spoke in measured tones and Harleen slumped down on the couch to watch.

“Reports coming in that Waylon Jones, commonly known as ‘Killer Croc’ has found a way to escape his highly secured cell in Arkham Asylum and is now in an unknown location, likely in the main sewers beneath the city. SWAT teams have been dispatched, and we’ve heard some reports that the Batman has been spotted, presumably in pursuit of Jones. Stand by for more information.” Harleen stared at the screen, lost in thought. Was this Batman such an acceptable thing in Gotham that the news reporters would calmly announce his involvement in crime prevention? Was that really how bad of a shape the city was in? That they needed to rely on a man dressed as a bat to take down the criminals?

She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes and sighed. The adrenaline was no longer coursing through her veins and she was suddenly very tired. She glanced at her phone sitting silently on the side table, next to the couch. It had been three days and no word from the authorities at the asylum on whether or not she was hired. But they had told her it might take a week…that meant there was hope.

If they didn’t hire her, well, she had no idea how she’d go back. _I have a lot riding on this,_ she thought ruefully, closing her eyes. _Get in, and you’re in charge of reforming some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. Don’t get accepted, and you’re a disgrace to the family. And everyone will know you’re not all you’re cracked up to be. Just some girl who cheated her way through med school and probably knows more about paying people off to do homework than how to conduct a therapy session. Isn’t that just great?_

Placing her hands over her eyes, Harleen leaned her head back and ignored the reporter’s voice droning on. A tear slipped between her fingers and ran down the back of her hand. _You’re just a little nobody. Always have been, always will be. They all pretend you’ll make it, but they know you’ll fail someday and come crawling back home like a whipped dog. Saying “I tried” and knowing you didn’t._

_You’ll be the failure everyone knows you’re gonna be._


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 

Harleen knew her parents would throw a fit if they knew she had gone to a bar all by herself, but she didn’t care. Besides, her parents weren’t here right now, and it wasn’t like it would hurt them if they didn’t know. On top of all that, she had promised herself she wouldn’t venture past uptown Gotham, unless it was to go to work. She knew what it was like once she was out of the upper-class district, and even without her parents around, she didn’t have the guts to wander around there. 

So all in all, she was really very safe. 

It was a pretty classy place, and she had already seen at least three men in tuxes come and go. Folding the paper napkin the bartender had given her (with the name of the place, “Ace of Hearts”, printed in tiny typewriter letters on the corner next to an equally tiny red heart), she stared blankly into space. The countless bottles that lined the wall swirled together into a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, and she blinked to clear her vision. 

_Don’t stay out too late._

She shook her head to rid it of her mother’s familiar warnings. Really, if she was going to let her daughter waltz off to Gotham City she should have been less overbearing. Harleen would have to take care of herself _somehow,_ and her helicopter parents weren’t really helping. Well, it didn’t matter. They weren’t here now. They were done affecting her life.

_As if. They’re the reason you’re back here. Scrambling to get a job at some dumpster-level asylum. “Prestigious”, huh? If you’d seen the place, Dad, you’d think otherwise._ Her first look at it hadn’t suggested much…it was a run-down, outdated old place, and that was only the outside. If the rusted iron gates with the words “Arkham Asylum” arching over the top in spiky, harsh letters were any indication of what it was like inside, then no wonder it was such a tough place. At the rate it seemed to be regressing it was a wonder the inmates weren’t running things over there. Although, if nothing else, it had only strengthened her resolve to work hard in her new position.

If she even got in.

Harleen’s internal monologue was interrupted as something brushed past her and knocked her purse to the floor. She immediately sprang after it before it could be snatched up by anyone else, and promptly crashed into a very solid figure standing behind her. She stumbled back, the breath knocked out of her, and the figure bent down to pick up her purse and hand it back. She took it wordlessly.

“Sorry about that, miss. I didn’t even notice you there.”

“That’s usually the case.” Harleen retorted before she could stop herself. Maybe it was the three shots she’d had, the bitterness she had been cultivating as she thought of her parents, or an unlucky combination of the two, but she did not appreciate whatever it was. The man looked surprised, then apologetic. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just lost in thought and wasn’t looking where I was going.” He held out a hand. “Forgive me?”

She stared at the proffered hand, wondering if she was supposed to shake it. Gosh, was today just designated for her to make a fool of herself? Figuring it was all or nothing, she decided on a handshake, tilting her head up to catch a glimpse of his face. It was a good-looking face...square jaw, high cheekbones...the sort of thing she could fall for if she was in the right mood. He smiled warmly and she realized he had nice eyes, too. Dark blue, like the tinted glass bottle of tequila she had just been staring at moments ago. 

“Sure.” She fumbled with the clasp on her purse and tried to think of something to say. He looked awfully familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had seen him before. _On the news?_ _Maybe a wanted poster? Lots of serial killers start out by trying to charm a girl while she’s alone._ “Sorry, do I know you?”   
“I couldn’t say. I meet a lot of beautiful girls.” He smiled goofily and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Too dumb for a serial killer._

“Okay then. Well, thanks for saving this.” She held up her purse and started to turn back to her seat, but his voice stopped her.

“What’s your name?”

Harleen didn’t really want to answer. She had planned on an evening of wallowing in self-pity, and this guy was in the way of that. But common decency forced her to reply. “Harleen. Harleen Quinzel. I just moved here.”

“Oh, I see.” he said conversationally. “That would explain why you don’t know me.”

_Jeez, this guy’s ego could rival Narcissus._ she thought sarcastically. _Who does he think he is?_ Nice eyes or not, she was not planning on sparing his feelings anymore. “Well, I used to live here. I didn’t know who you were then either.”

“My name’s Bruce.” he said, almost apologetically. 

“Huh, I used to have a cat named Bruce. Well, we called him Bruno. He was the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.”

“I hope I can raise the expectations associated with the name.” _Is that cheesy smile a permanent feature of his face? How much further can it go?_ “Do you think I can?”

She shrugged, glancing at him with a critical eye. He _was_ pretty attractive, but so were lots of other guys. And that grin wasn’t helping much. “I guess it depends who you’re asking.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement and seemed about to say something when the bartender came over. “Another drink, miss?”

“No thanks.” She pushed the empty shot glass toward him. The man turned to her new companion.

“What about you, Mr. Wayne?”

With a sidelong glance at Harleen, Bruce nodded. “I’ll take a martini, dry.”

“Coming right up, sir.” 

Harleen’s eyes grew wide and her face flushed crimson. “Oh God.”

“Something wrong?” Bruce asked, and she licked her lips nervously, words tumbling out of her mouth too quickly to filter. 

“You’re Bruce Wayne? _The_ Bruce Wayne? Like, the billionaire who runs half the city?” 

He chuckled. “I guess you could say that. So you do know me.”

“I didn’t realize that was _you.”_ she explained, flustered. “I’ve only heard your name before, and I don’t know if I’ve ever even seen your picture…I guess I haven’t, otherwise I would have…”  
He held up a hand to halt any further blustering excuses and Harleen shut her mouth with a snap to prevent any further embarrassment. _Like it could get worse than this._ “Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing to meet someone who’s not trying to kiss up to me all the time. You’d better not start now that you know who I am.”  
Some of her shattered dignity restored, Harleen lifted her chin. She had already messed up, it wasn’t like she could do anything worse. Besides, the odds of them meeting again were probably zero to none. “No fear of that, Mr. Wayne.”

He smiled. “Please, call me Bruce.” 

She couldn’t stifle a scoff. Here was the king, presiding benevolently over his kingdom. _“Please, don’t bother.” “Please, don’t refer to me so reverently.” What an entitled little…_

“Well, _Bruce_ ,” she said aloud, matching his smile, “Why are you wasting your time talking to a stranger like me? You must have come here to meet someone.”

“You should join the police department. They’re in need of some good detectives over there.” he smirked. “You’re right, I am waiting for someone, but they’re not here yet and you were in arm’s reach, so what better to pass the time?”

“So you knocked my purse over on purpose?”

“That was an accident. Just like I was accidentally ensnared in those eyes of yours and had to sit down for a chat.” 

She shook her head disbelievingly. “Surely a guy who makes his fame going from girl to girl has a smoother pick-up line than that?”

He shrugged. “Guilty as charged. But my brain’s a little fried tonight and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

“So anyway, I’m just a way for you to amuse yourself until your friend gets here?” Harleen stood up, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “As flattering as that probably is to some girls, it’s not exactly my cup of tea. See you later, Bruce.”

“Wait, Harleen,” he stood up too, blocking her path. She stared up at him, unintimidated. This guy probably couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt a fly. She could probably throw a punch better than he could. 

“Nope. Find some other eyes to get lost in."

“I was just joking with you. I really wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure you did. You picked a random person in the room who was close enough that you didn’t have to move and said, ‘I genuinely want to start a real conversation with this total stranger.’ Nice try, but I’m a psychiatrist. I can tell when people are lying.”

“You’re a psychiatrist?” he echoed, ignoring her accusation. She sighed.

“Well, I’m almost one. I’m finishing my third year of residency here. So yeah, I’m basically certified.”

“Where are you working here? Gotham General Hospital?”  
“If all goes well, Arkham Asylum.”

The smile disappeared from Bruce’s face and for the first time his expression became serious. “They’re going to let you work there? A med school student?”

Resentment shot through her. “For your information, I graduated med school two years ago. This is _residency,_ and that means I’m practically a doctor without a license yet. Not a college kid.”

“Who’s letting you in there?” His voice was devoid of any of that goofy charisma it had held just moments ago and she tilted her head curiously. Why was he so on edge all of a sudden? 

“I had an interview with Joan Leland the other day and I’m waiting to hear back from her. She’s the head of the main psychiatric ward.”

“Yes, I know Joan.” he interrupted. “And she’s okay with you working there?”

“I’ll know when she gets back to me. But it looks like it.” What was this guy’s problem? She knew how to handle herself.

“Look, Harleen.” He steered her back to her seat and sat down beside her. “I’ve lived in Gotham my whole life. This city isn’t normal. The criminals here…well, most of them are _in_ Arkham. They’re not your average criminals. Surely you’ve heard stories.”

“I’ve heard some.” She really hadn’t, but there was no way she’d lose face in front of this guy, who seemed suddenly interested in being her third parent. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be.” He was staring at her, his blue eyes drilling into hers with unparalleled intensity. “You’ve got to keep your distance from these people, Harleen. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She tried to smile to lighten the mood, but gave up when he didn’t return the look. “Thanks for the concern, Bruce, but I can take care of myself. And besides, I’ve worked hard for this.” _There you go, lying again._ “I know what I’m doing.”

“At least do some research before you commit.” he urged her. The bartender brought him his drink but he ignored it. “Learn what you’re getting into, okay?”

Harleen shook her head and laughed softly. “Honestly, why do you care? You don’t even know me. You just said a moment ago you were using me to pass the time.”

“Just listen. No one knows better than me about what lives inside Arkham. I’m…let’s say I’m in charge of a lot of things in this city, and I’ve been involved with countless projects at the asylum. There are criminals there that even I don’t want to face, Harleen. Trust me when I say that. I just want you to know that before you decide to work there.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” she replied, standing up again. “Goodbye, Bruce.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. “Okay. Goodbye, Harleen.”

She slung her purse over her shoulder and walked out without a backward glance, but she could feel Bruce Wayne’s eyes on her until the door swung shut behind her. 


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

 

“I will make no pretenses with you.” Joan Leland glanced severely at Harleen from across the desk, a look foreign to her usual kind expression. “First of all, you must understand this place is incredibly dangerous and the asylum is not responsible for anything that happens to you. That’s in the liability agreement you signed.”

Harleen shifted in her seat, trying to keep eye contact with the intimidating woman across from her. “Okay.”

“Secondly, we are hiring you because we are currently short-staffed in the area of psychoanalysts. Like I told you, they usually don’t stay very long.” Leland pursed her lips. “I would not expect you to either, and if you choose to resign, we will write you a letter of recommendation for admission into another institution. We are not hiring you because of your experience, because, frankly, you have none. However, you fulfill the requirements to work here, at least temporarily, and that can be the case as of now.”

Harleen could barely contain her excitement. Although psychiatry was furthest from her career aspiration, she couldn’t help but feel some semblance of accomplishment. Here she was, getting accepted to work at the infamous Arkham Asylum. Home to some of the city’s…the _country’s…_ most feared criminal minds. And Leland were trusting _her_ to help save them from their insanity. She suddenly felt more motivated than she ever had in her life. 

_I’m going to help people. I’m going to make something of myself._

_I’ll show them all that I really_ can _do it._

“Like I mentioned,” Leland continued, “We will not judge you if you decide it is too much stress for you. Much more experienced psychiatrists have quit after a single session, as I’m sure I’ve told you.”

_She’s treating me like I’m made of glass. Just like Wayne._ Resentment broke through Harleen’s excitement. _It’s not like I’m still a kid. I know how to handle myself in these situations._

“And I must warn you, these are highly intelligent people we deal with here, most of the time. Many of our former doctors have fallen prey to their manipulative ways, Harleen, and it has not ended well for them.”

“I’m aware of the problems that could occur, Doctor Leland.” Harleen said, a little too coldly. She mustered a smile to mask her tone. “And I promise I will let you know if anything like that happens. I won’t let them control me.”

“Good, I like that attitude. But don’t forget, it’s okay to be intimidated. It’s okay to doubt your progress. Our doctors who have been too self-assured often think they’ve cured a patient of their insanity, but it’s really just a trick.”

_Does she really think I’m that self-centered and gullible?_ Harleen thought bitterly. _It’s like she’s trying to discourage me before I’ve begun._

As if reading the younger woman’s thoughts, Leland hurried to add, “It’s not that I don’t want you here, Harleen. I just want you to be careful.”

“I will be.” she said, squaring her shoulders and trying to look as worldly as possible. “I already have two years of experience under my belt.”

Leland smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “All right, then. I guess there’s nothing else to do but tell you you’re hired. I already have your schedule, and you can begin as soon as possible. Like I said, we’re short-staffed here.”

Harleen almost jumped out of her seat and hugged the doctor. Instead, she clasped her hands together and bit back a very eager, very unprofessional smile. “Oh, thank you _so_ much.” she said earnestly. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

Leland waved away the thanks and pulled out a thick stack of files from a drawer in her desk. “You’re a third-year, so you get to conduct sessions on your own. Like I told you before, you will report back to me, but as long as I approve of the patients for you to work with, then you’re pretty independent.” She passed the files to Harleen. “This is a list of our patients in the ward you’ll be working in. If I had my way, I’d put you with the lower-level folks who are in for little things like arson and animal abuse, but there’s plenty of staff there. Where we’re really lacking is the maximum security ward, where I work. You probably already know of some of our patients from the news…they’ve gained a pretty big reputation in the past ten years. People call them a rogue gallery.”

Harleen took the files. “These are their profiles?”

“Yes. Now remember what I told you about being careful. I’ll let you conduct your work on your own, but not without security cameras and guards present. We have to be careful around here.”  
“I know.”

Leland sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Well, look through those papers, then give me a call when you know who you want to work with, okay? I’ll set up your first session and you can come into work on Monday.”

“Thank you so much.” Harleen said again, standing up. She had only heard Leland’s words through a haze of excitement that was clouding her brain. _Wait until I tell Dad…they’ll finally all realize that I can make something of myself. That I can do things on my own._ Still, another part of her whispered incessantly, _But did you really make something of yourself? Did you really earn this?_

_Shut up, that’s in the past. I’m going to work hard now, and work honestly. I’ll do it on my own, and I’ll get by somehow._

_Liar. You’ve never worked hard in your life. You’ve never put effort into this before. Why start now?_

_Because,_ she tried to rationalize with herself as she left the office, _I’ve realized something. I’m going to help people now. They need me, and I have to work hard to help them. It’s my job, and I’m going to be good at it, whatever it takes._

_Suit yourself,_ the other side of her retorted loftily, _but you know the truth, don’t you? The truth that even you don’t want to admit?_

_The truth is that I really want to do this now. I don’t love it, and I never will. But if I can help, if I do a good enough job, they’ll remember me. I’ll have amounted to something, at least._

_No. The truth is that you’re scared of not being good enough. You’re scared that you’ll fail and go back to being a sad little nobody. Just like you always have been._

_But that won’t happen._ She shut out the other voice in her head defiantly. _I won’t fail. I’m going to get it right this time. No matter what._

 

_\+ + + + + + +_

 

Harleen sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, staring at the stack of folders in front of her. The gravity of the situation had begun to hit her in full force. Before, while talking to Leland, her future seemed like a hazy, rose-tinted thing that she would get to some other time. 

Not anymore. She was going to have to come face-to-face with criminals, people who were utterly and undeniably insane. She had never dealt with anything near this before…this was more than a step up from working as an assistant therapist in hospitals. It was a leap that could very easily end with a fall on her face. 

But she was _not_ going to let that scare her. She had come too far already. There was no going back now.

Harleen thought about her parents, how they had always said they knew their daughter could get what she wanted, if she worked hard enough. She remembered the look in their eyes that screamed out, _We don’t really think this, we’re just trying to be encouraging._ Her chest tightened. 

_I won’t let you down. I’ll show you I can be more than you think._

She opened the first file. As a new occupant of Gotham, she was not completely familiar with this “rogue gallery” as Leland had called them, despite what she had said. Still, she had done some research the past few days, and had found at least a little information on the city’s more notorious criminals.

The file was on a man named Jonathan Crane, a former psychiatrist at Arkham, now intent on unearthing people’s greatest fears. He wore a burlap mask and called himself the Scarecrow. Harleen grimaced at the page she held. Was this what she would turn into, working the same sort of job Crane had held? Maybe she’d start running around Gotham in a Halloween costume of her own. A nervous laugh caught in her throat and she turned the page. Interesting, certainly, but she wasn’t ready to dedicate a year of her life to working with this guy until she had seen all her options.

The next file was no less strange…the mugshot staring up at her was of a red-haired man with bright green eyes. The nameplate he held read “Nygma, Edward. Alias: The Riddler.” Harleen glanced over the description below. According to the report, Nygma was a former computer scientist with a penchant for riddle-themed crimes. After sending out a city-wide virus to local technology and trying to plant a bomb in Gotham Central Station, he had been caught and sent to Arkham. Harleen raised an eyebrow. _At least he’s not a psychiatrist too._

Harleen turned to the next page and instantly stifled an incredulous half-laugh. She couldn't help it. What had she gotten herself into? Every criminal in Arkham was like the product of an acid hallucination. Was she supposed to take this seriously? Scarecrows preying on phobias, genius riddle-men running around…and _clowns?_ Not that clowns weren’t creepy as heck, but really? Was this Doctor Leland’s way of saying she wanted Harleen to forget about this whole thing just by weirding her out? 

Her smile disappeared as she looked more closely at the mugshot. Maybe it wasn’t a joke. After more scrutiny, she realized the ghost-pale face and dark green hair that stood out in unruly yet impeccably styled curls weren’t the products of makeup and dye…this wasn’t a circus clown gone haywire like she had first thought. Unlike the other pictures, this one wasn’t holding a nameplate. He was simply standing there, grinning at the camera in a way that made an uneasy shiver snake its way down Harleen’s back. Her eyes traveled down to the description, but there was next to nothing there.

_Name: Unknown._

_Age: Unknown._

_Living Relatives: Unknown._

_Basically_ , she realized as the list of unknowns grew longer, _this guy could be anyone._ The only details the staff at Arkham could provide was what they could see; height, weight, hair and eye color (and even then they could not supply what those had originally been). Harleen frowned and turned the page, looking for more information. How could they know so little about this guy? Wasn’t it their job to know these things? Her eyes were drawn to one of the few details that had been filled out. 

_Alias: Joker._

So the clown thing was a theme. She wondered if the look was a product of that, or if it was the other way around. There was nothing on where he had come from, or how he had gotten the apparently permanent green-hair-and-pale-face thing. 

Just like every other missing detail.

Not expecting much in the crime report either, Harleen’s eyes widened as she turned the next page and was met with the longest list of offenses she had ever seen. Shocked, she began to read. The first few were not too terrible…a few robberies and some arson reports, but that was only the beginning. Soon it turned to murder, kidnapping, and aggravated assault, with multiple accounts of each. Descriptions of the killings had been added, and Harleen could barely bring herself to read some of them. Apparently he tried to drive his victims insane, then killed them without any sort of provocation at all. And that was only some of the time. Other murders were completely random, products of “boredom”, the report said. She flipped back to look at the picture again. Suddenly, that gleeful grin was much more frightening. She began to notice a darkness in his eyes that hadn’t been quite obvious at first.

Her mouth had gone dry, and she licked her lips, still staring at the report. She had expected one or two acts of insanity, maybe something prankish and inconvenient, but this was enough crime for every inmate in the country prison to commit, and more. She felt nauseated and completely repulsed, yet a horrible curiosity was growing in the back of her mind, and she had to keep reading.

Thankfully, the list of crimes had come to an end and she was able to turn the page without being faced with yet another description of someone being brutally killed or attacked. This was the diagnosis page, and the staff at Arkham might not know who he was or where he came from, but they were more than happy to assign countless mental disorders, diagnosed or speculated, to the inmate. Psychosis, OCD, acute stress disorder, antisocial personality, PTSD…the list stretched on and on. If it was in the books, this guy apparently had it. Harleen frowned. _For someone without a background, this is pretty decisive._

She began to realize what was so different about this file. The other criminals had had some sort of method to their actions…searching for people’s fears, proving their intelligence. But this one didn’t seem to have any sort of pattern in what he did at all. It was totally random, mostly unprovoked, and never the exact same thing twice. She shook her head and continued reading.

Apparently in Arkham he was known only as “Patient 2540,” and for some reason Harleen felt a spark of indignation. Could they really not go through the trouble to find out his name? Or at least _give_ him one if he wouldn’t tell them? 

Instantly she felt ashamed of herself. Here she was, almost sympathizing with a criminal whose record was longer than almost every serial killer she had heard of. A complete psychopath with no regard for anyone else, and she was worried about his _name?_ How could she even think about such a thing? He didn’t deserve an identity, not after everything he had done, and it was frankly ridiculous to even think about it. 

She pushed the thought out of her mind and kept reading.

 


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

 

“Harleen, it was a mistake.” Leland fiddled with a letter opener on her desk and avoided the younger woman’s eyes. “You have to understand that.”

“I know I can do it.” she persisted stubbornly. “You just have to give me a chance.”

“No. I will not be responsible for something that dangerous.”

“You said yourself you don’t assume any responsibility, and neither does anyone at Arkham. It’s my choice and I’ll take what comes with it.”

“You’re too young. You have practically no experience.”

“So? I know what I’m doing. I’ve worked so hard to get here.” She hated playing that card…it seemed so childish and desperate, but it was her last resort.

“No, Harleen. You need to trust me when I tell you to give it up.”

“Look.” She set the file down on the desk, probably too forcefully. “There is absolutely no information on here. Why is that? Has no one really been determined enough to fill in at least a few blanks?”

“It’s not like they haven’t tried.” Leland shot back. “Patient 2540 is what we call a lost cause around here, Miss Quinzel. The only thing keeping us from cutting off psychoanalysis altogether is Arkham’s reputation. Otherwise he’d be locked up in a cell where he would never see the light of day again, and a lot of people would be thankful for that.”

Harleen frowned. “But you have to continue your work. And there’s no one doing it right now. I _want_ to do this, so why won’t you let me?” 

“Because you have no idea what you’re doing, and I will not allow it!” Leland leaned forward to accentuate her words. “Give it up, Harleen. You’re not ready. No one is ever ready, okay? Remember what I told you about manipulative patients? Well, this is one of the experts. Why do you think no one has ever held sessions with him for more than a year at a time?”

“Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I can’t do it!” Harleen’s voice rose higher and she fought to keep it down. A part of her was screaming, _“You idiot! Do you want to screw up your chances for working here at all? Give it up!”_ But she couldn’t give it up. She didn’t want to give it up.

“Listen to me. It was by accident that I included that file in the package I gave you. I wish you hadn’t even read it. I’m surprised that alone didn’t discourage you from even asking about this.”

“I know what I’m getting into. I’m doing this for purely professional purposes. Not out of blind curiosity, not out of sympathy, and not because I want to be recognized. What could go wrong? It’s not like I’ll ever be alone and unsupervised with him, right? I won’t even talk to him outside of a meeting.”

“The best of the best have not been able to get even the slightest bit of truth from him, okay? No one knows where he came from, what made him the way he is, or even his name. We’ve given up trying to help a long time ago, and now all we’re doing is trying to gather information for research. I doubt that you could get any further with that than what we’ve done.”

“Maybe it’s _because_ they’re professionals.” Harleen argued. “At this point, if you’re right about how many people have failed, he must know the standard questions they’ll ask and the answers they expect. If I approach this differently, I may be able to get some actual information out of him.”

Leland folded her arms. “Why do you care so much about this, Harleen? Why not work with one of the others?”

  
“Because it won’t matter! You already know everything about them. You know their M.O., their names, their pasts and probably their future. The Joker—”

“Patient 2540,” Leland corrected her sternly, and Harleen nodded impatiently.

“Yes. You don’t know anything about him, and I want to change that. Think of the progress that could be made if we found out even one thing about him!”

“We’re not interesting in making progress.” Leland said stonily. “We’re trying to maintain order in the asylum, and if that means cycling through a dozen volunteer hothead psychiatrists a year for one inmate, then fine. As long as no one gets killed, we’re satisfied.”

Harleen ignored the last sentence. She didn't want to think about it. “Please give me a chance. If anything bad happens, I will stop working immediately. I promise. I just want to give it a try. Isn’t that what all the others have done?”

“The others who have failed? Yes, it’s what they’ve done. And it’s why I don’t want you doing it.”

She huffed out an irritated sigh. “Please, Doctor Leland. Give me one week. If you don’t like what I’m doing, or if something happens, I promise I’ll stop. I’ll pick the most harmless person in the entire asylum and I’ll work with them for the entire year and not complain. Just one week, and then you can decide.”

“You’re in no position to be making terms.” Leland’s lips quirked up in something close to an amused smile, and there was a kind look in her eyes again. Harleen held her breath as the other woman studied the lines in the desk silently. She would have jumped at the slightest sound. Finally, Leland looked up.

“One week isn’t going to kill you, I guess. But,” she added as Harleen resisted the urge to jump and and smother her with thanks, “like you said, if anything happens, anything at _all,_ you call it quits.”

“I understand.” Harleen nodded seriously, the intensity of the situation grabbing hold of her. She wasn’t going to be working with a run-of-the-mill inmate here…this was a full-fledged murderer. Her parents would throw a fit…but wasn’t this what they’d wanted her to do? “I’ll be careful.”

Leland still looked skeptical, but she didn’t back out now. “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can take a tour of the asylum, all right? Then you can start work Monday, like we’d planned. That gives you a day to work out what you’ll be doing. Is that enough time?”

  
“Yes.” Harleen had no idea where she would start, but she wasn’t going to look unprepared now. “I’ll be ready.”

“Good. We’ll go over protocol when we meet tomorrow. You’ll need to pay attention.”

“I will.” She stood up to leave, and Leland handed the file back to her. 

“One week, Harleen. One week, then no more.”

“If something happens.” 

Leland nodded slowly, looking as if she wanted to say something else. “Yes. If something happens.”

On the bus headed back to her apartment, Harleen reopened the file on her lap and stared down at the picture on top of the papers. Those remorseless eyes stared back at her and she pursed her lips. 

“I’m going to figure you out.” she whispered. “You won’t scare me away like you did with everyone else. They think you’re hopeless, but that can’t be true. I know it can’t.” She closed the file with a snap and allowed herself to hope. She had told Leland she wasn’t doing this to be noticed or recognized, but that wasn’t entirely true, was it? She shook her head. 

_You’re doing this because you want to help people. You want to make a difference._

_Yes, make a difference. Harleen Quinzel, the first psychiatrist to successfully figure out Gotham’s most dangerous criminal mind. Up in the lights, in the news. They could make a movie about you. You know why you’re really doing this._

“No.” she whispered aloud, closing her eyes to shut out the thoughts. 

_Yes,_ her thoughts responded. _Admit it, Harleen. You’ve always wanted fame and fortune, and you know it. Don’t think you’re better than you are._

“Shut up.” she muttered, trying to think about something else.

“Hello, Harleen.”   
Her eyes shot open as she looked up at the tall figure standing in front of her.

Suddenly, thinking about something else was much, much easier.

“Mr. Wayne, aren’t you a billionaire?”

Bruce Wayne, who had unexpectedly entered the bus and was currently badly disguised in a Gotham High baseball cap and grey scarf, quirked an eyebrow at Harleen. “Thought I told you to call me Bruce.” 

“ _Bruce,_ aren’t you a billionaire?”

“Yep. That’s why I’m trying to not be noticed by a busload of people, so I’d appreciate it if you kept your voice down.”

“Talking to people isn’t the best way to be unnoticed.”

“Oh, if I know you, you’re not going to cause a stir.”

“News flash, you don’t know me. You’re just lucky I don’t care enough to say anything.” She fiddled with the edges of the papers filling the file she held. “And why are you on a city bus? Don’t you own like twenty cars?” 

  
“Like I said, I’m going unnoticed. Lamborghinis usually would not do the job around here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? You secretly a cop or something?”

  
He chuckled, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands behind his head. “Not exactly. I was going to see a friend and didn’t want paparazzi to spot me. I just got back from a hop across the pond and I’m not in the mood for questions.”

“Europe? Why were you in Europe?” Harleen asked despite herself. _Why do you care, busybody?_

Bruce shrugged vaguely. “Business. Boring stuff.” He nodded at the file in her lap. “What do you have there?”

“Business.” She imitated his voice. “Boring stuff. A file of an inmate at Arkham I’ll be working with.”

“So you took the job anyway?” His expression didn’t change, but there was something different in his eyes. Worry, maybe. Harleen nodded.

“I did. I’m not going to be scared away from an opportunity like this.”

He stared at the sloped ceiling of the bus silently before speaking. “When do you start work?”

  
“Monday.” She didn’t want another lecture on how she wasn’t experienced enough, shouldn’t be putting herself in danger, _ad nauseam._ “Also, I don’t remember us being friends.” As soon as she spoke, she hoped her abrasive words wouldn’t scare him away. Really, who was she to pass up an opportunity to spend time with Gotham’s resident billionaire, who definitely wasn’t bad-looking, either? _Harleen Wayne._ She stifled a half-ashamed, half-amused giggle. _What, this guy talks to you twice, probably both times out of pure coincidence, and you’re already trying out his last name? He probably knows everyone in this city, you doofus._

“I’m sorry.” he sounded genuinely apologetic. “You did look busy before I interrupted.” He stood up, and Harleen added almost too quickly,

“I didn’t mean we _couldn’t_ be friends,” Bruce glanced down at her, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a amused smile. _Could he look any more condescending?_ Harleen could have punched herself in the face for how desperate she sounded, but she tried to smile back. “I…um…”

“This is my stop, anyway, so I’ll let you get back to work,” Bruce said in a generous tone, probably the same one he used when he donated a thousand bucks to an orphanage or something. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He winked before turning and pulling his scarf back over his face, making his way to the front of the bus.

Harleen slumped down in her seat, hiding her face in the file she was holding. _It’s like you’re trying to be a disaster,_ she chastised herself. _Just can’t do anything right, can you?_

_Oh well, it doesn’t matter._ She sat back up with a sigh, tucking a stray wisp of blonde hair back behind her ear. _You’ve got more important things to think about._


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

 

Monday had passed in a whirlwind of technicalities. Leland had shown her to her office (no more than a dimly lit hole in the wall room, sparsely inhabited by a scratched industrial desk and chair, with a floor lamp lurking in the corner, but to Harleen it was love at first sight…the first actual office she’d ever had.) She’d been given a head-spinning tour of the other third-floor offices near her own, the rooms where psychiatric sessions were usually held (equipped with surveillance cameras all around) and Leland’s own office. After that, she had spent the next few hours arranging the few files and books she owned in the even fewer desk drawers, then had sat down to take another look at Patient 2540’s Arkham profile. 

Before opening the pages of information, she paused to look at the picture in the front of the file. The mugshot grinned up at her, and there was something so oddly compelling about the completely unabashed expression that beamed from the patient’s sharply angular, pale face. It was like looking at the expression on a child’s face before they were told they had done something wrong. A sort of innocence that lay behind the malice. 

She flipped the picture over and continued to the files.

The folder only contained the pages she had already read, but Harleen couldn’t help reviewing the information they contained, if only because she wanted to find something she had missed before. There was so much she didn’t know, so much that _no one_ knew, and she was beginning to feel more than a little overwhelmed at the prospect of starting out with practically nothing to go off of. With a sigh, she turned to the page that listed the multiple stories of his past the lunatic had fed to the psychiatrists before her, before laughing in their faces and denying every aspect of each fabricated tale. He seemed to think it was a game, making up crazy origins for himself, knowing the desperate doctors would accept it readily before realizing it was completely false.

_Really,_ Harleen thought as she read over each account, _how gullible do you have to be to think the man who’s never told his story to anyone would suddenly spell it out for you out of the blue?_ There was nothing new to learn here…only that the criminal had skill for creating believable past lives for himself. Harleen leaned back in her chair. _Maybe not so innocent after all._ The more she read about the madman, the more confused her feelings became. She was repulsed by his crimes and the way he shamelessly manipulated practically everyone at Arkham, but another part of her harbored an indignation for the the incompetence of the asylum’s own staff. Leland herself had said Patient 2540 was a hopeless case and they no longer cared what happened to him, as long as it was up to code. Such a blatant declaration from the head of staff was more than a little concerning…after all, the inmates were human too, even after all the crimes they’d committed.

It wasn’t sympathy Harleen felt. She doubted she could _ever_ feel sympathy for someone who was such a sadistic, cold-hearted killer, but some small part of her incessantly whispered, _If you’re insane, do you really know what you’re doing?_ Did Patient 2540 realize the depravity of his actions, or were they simply random acts of violence spurred on by a warped, damaged mind? She couldn’t tell.

Well, it wasn’t her job to think like that. It was her job to gather information, and that was all. She kept repeating that in her head like a mantra, but couldn’t bring herself to believe it. For as long as she could remember, she had always been ambitious. She’d always held herself to the highest standard and couldn't believe it when she didn’t live up to it. That perfectionism had melted away as she progressed in school and the classes became overwhelmingly difficult, and for a long time she had given up on ever making anything worthwhile of herself.

But now, sitting in an office of her own at one of the highest-profile asylums in the country (even if it didn’t look like much), about to work with one of the highest-profile criminals _ever,_ that ambition had flooded back full-force. Even if it was diminished by the constant beat-downs of her ego by her peers who thought she would never amount to anything, Harleen couldn’t help but want to do something great. Something to be remembered by.

_And,_ that irritatingly persistent little voice inside her whispered, _if you could actually crack the code of this lunatic…if you could discover something no one else has…_

_Well_ , she thought, spinning absentmindedly around in the swivel chair at her desk, _then I could be remembered forever._

 

\+ + + + + + + 

 

Tuesday came quicker than she’d ever expected, and before she knew it, Harleen was sitting in the therapy room at a metal table with rounded edges, trying to hide the fear that was quickly taking over her thoughts.

She hadn’t been scared before this, but somehow, when the reality of the situation set in, she was terrified. She’d never seen the patient in person, and had never worked up the courage to read any further about him than the file…besides, wasn’t the media supposed to be biased? Who knew what sort of stories were circulating through the papers and news networks? But now she felt hopelessly under-equipped. She didn’t even know what he really _looked_ like, aside from the one mugshot in the file.

_It’s okay, Harls,_ she told herself. _It’s your very first session ever, and I’m sure everyone feels like this at the beginning. Just don’t think about it. Besides, you’re here to_ gather _information, so it’s okay if you don’t have any to begin with, right?_

She shifted in her chair and rearranged the papers sitting in front of her. The single clock that hung above the doorway shifted its hands to the next minute, and Harleen took a deep breath. Even the room was intimidating. The empty chair opposite her had handcuffs attached to the arms, surveillance cameras graced every corner of the ceiling, and the room seemed too big for just two people. She felt like her voice would echo if she spoke aloud.

Out of nowhere, Bruce Wayne’s face flashed across her mind’s eye. She blinked in confusion and shook her head. Why she would even _think_ about that man while she was doing serious work was beyond her. But for some reason she felt calmer, as if the thought had grounded her back in reality. 

_Whatever._

She straightened her jacket, although it was already perfectly situated, and laced her fingers together. 

The stifling silence was interrupted by a grating sound as the door slid open, the bottom of it scraping across the floor. Harleen jumped at the sudden noise and looked up. Two burly orderlies, stone-faced and intimidating, were the first things she noticed before seeing the figure between them, who they were holding onto with iron grips. 

Harleen watched them silently, surprised by how frankly _not_ intimidating Patient 2540 looked, now that she was finally seeing him in person. After reading the long list of his unspeakable crimes, her mind had conjured up an image of a snarling, leering, totally deranged lunatic who would kill her at a moment’s notice if he could. This was decidedly not the case with the man she now saw.

Aside from the Arkham-issued straightjacket and the unnatural clown-like colors of his face and hair (even seeing him in real life, Harleen could hardly believe it wasn’t simply expertly applied greasepaint and dye), there was nothing particularly frightening about his appearance. He was tall, much taller than her (not a difficult feat, as she was only five foot four) and almost disproportionately thin. It looked like a strong wind could snap him in half, but she knew that was most likely deceiving. A criminal who practically ruled the city had to be pretty strong. He sat down in the chair across from her and let the guards handcuff his wrists, which were still hidden in the straightjacket. She watched him and he stared back with dark green eyes, large in his angular face, betraying nothing with his expression. He was smiling faintly, as if he was thinking of some secret joke only he was privy to, but silent. The guards turned to leave, and one of them glanced at Harleen.

“We’re outside the door if you need anything. Cameras are on and we’ll be watching.” He turned to the inmate. “Behave yourself, got it? Like I said, we’re watching.” Patient 2540 gave no indication he had heard and his wide-eyed gaze never strayed from Harleen’s face. The guards left, and the door locked behind them with a click.

Harleen cleared her throat and looked down at the file in front of her, gathering the papers up and shuffling them in order. “Hello.” He said nothing, and she leaned forward. “My name is Harleen Quinzel. I’m your new psychiatrist. Do you want to tell me your name?”

He arched an eyebrow and leaned forward himself, as much as the straightjacket would allow. The handcuffs rattled. “I would like to make one thing clear before you continue. I don’t particularly care for condescending people. If you try to be condescending with me, I will rip your lungs out and feed them to you.” He settled back in the chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “Just so you know.”

Harleen wasn’t sure what she had expected him to sound like, but it wasn’t that. He was surprisingly soft-spoken, with an unusual lilt that she couldn’t quite pin down, and although his words were terrifying, there was nothing in his voice that would hint he was threatening her. His expression never changed, and that small, secretive smile never left his face. Harleen licked her lips and unconsciously moved back away from him.

“The guards are watching this, and if you make a threat, they are authorized to come in and take you out.”

“That wouldn’t matter to me much, would it? Besides, they can’t hear what we’re saying. It’s only video footage.”

Harleen was still unsettled by his calm, reasonable tone. She had expected nothing less than the typecast “raving lunatic” act from the inmate, and this was almost more frightening. But there was no way she would show that. She lifted her chin and continued.

“There are a few things I want to ask you, and I won’t be condescending. Not because you threatened me, but because it’s not how I work.” She prided herself on sounding so decisive, even though she really wanted to get up and run out. How had she ended up in the same room as a psychotic killer? Why had this ever been a good idea?

Too late to back out now.

“Ask away. I’m here all day.” He regarded her with a critical eye, as if sizing her up. For what, she couldn’t tell. 

On to question number one. The one she’d rehearsed all the way here so she wouldn’t stumble over it or mess up the words. _Paranoid much?_ “I know there’s not much use in asking what your name is, but would you mind telling me why you don’t want to reveal it?” 

“I’ve told my name to everyone I know, they just won’t listen.”

She frowned. “Is that a riddle or something?”

“Not at all. It’s the simple truth. People only hear what they want.”

“What is your name, then? The one you tell to everyone?”

He tilted his head incredulously. “Surely you can do a little guessing yourself, Harleen?”

Her gaze, which had faltered down to the papers on the desk, snapped back up to meet his. “Doctor Quinzel to you, please.”

“I’m sorry.” he said sincerely, and Harleen began to understand what Leland had meant by “manipulative.” If she didn’t know anything about the man, she would have believed him in an instant. Believed he really _was_ sorry.

Fortunately, she was prepared for that.

“Well, if you want me to guess, I’d say you tell people your name is the Joker. That’s what they’ve listed as your alias.” She tapped her pen against the file. “But that can’t be your _real_ name.”

“Can it not?” He gave another small smile.

“Perhaps its what you would _like_ it to be, but it’s not who you really are. You must know that.”

“What did I say about being condescending?” His smile never faltered, but a dangerous edge crept into his tone. Almost as if he was offended by her words.

“That wasn’t my intent. I just meant that you can’t expect people to believe that’s your real name.”

“What would you rather have me say?” he asked, watching her intently. Harleen shrugged, not expecting the questioning to be turned on her.

“I don’t know. I’m not the one who knows who you are.”

He shifted back and forth in the chair, awkwardly adjusting his arms in the straightjacket. He looked like a wild animal ensnared in a trap, his movements impatient and almost claustrophobic. “Then, Doctor Quinzel, I don’t think I can tell you the truth yet.”

Harleen stared at him, trying to conceal her confusion. “What do you mean?”

His smile grew into a grin, and amusement glittered in his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“If you told the truth, I would believe you.”

“It really is surprising how many people say that until I tell them the truth. Besides, one has to watch what one says around here. Just a little slip-up, and it’s time for your face to have a rendezvous with a guard’s fist.” He paused. “Not _you,_ of course. Just theoretically speaking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harleen’s forehead creased in a combination of worry and confusion. Was that a threat? But no, he said he didn’t mean her. 

“Nothing. Just making some conversation.”

“Well, we’re not here for a conversation.”

“What are we doing, then?”

Harleen hesitated, then decided it was better to put it bluntly than skirt around the matter. “I’m asking you some important questions and trying to figure out who you are. It’s what I’ve been hired for.” The patient gave her a long look, and there was something like admiration in his eyes. Harleen continued, “I know you don’t have any reason to tell me anything about yourself, but it’s my job.”

He nodded along to her words. “Impressive, Doctor Quinzel. First day on the job, and you already know more than most of the seasoned eggheaded shrinks that make their unlucky way into this very room. You will only learn what _I_ want you to learn, but who knows? Maybe I’ll be generous with you.”

“Are you feeling generous enough to talk to me about who you were before you began your criminal acts?”

“ _I_ didn’t exist,” he said, and there was such conviction in his tone that she almost believed him too. “If, and I mean _if_ there was someone before this,” he tried to make some sort of gesture, but was too restricted to the straightjacket to do much of anything, and it came off as a half-shrug, “it’s not worth thinking about. Besides, why would that matter to you at all?”

“It could explain your actions.”

He laughed. It was the first time she heard him laugh, and it was as unnerving as everyone said, high and airy and completely carefree. Perhaps it was the genuine amusement he found in her clearly unfunny words, or the way all restraints disappeared from his personality and she could finally see his insanity, gleaming in his eyes beneath their calm depths, but whatever it was, it scared her. 

She glanced at the clock. Five minutes has passed. Twenty-five to go.

“For a moment, I really thought you had a head on your shoulders, Doctor.” He finally composed himself and sat back, but his eyes still shone with suppressed humor. “You really had potential, did you know that? I almost _wanted_ to answer your questions. But then you had to go and mess it all up.”

Harleen stared. “What do you mean? How did I mess up?” She shut her mouth instantly, but not before the words got out. Her cheeks flushed dark red and she gritted her teeth together. _Stupid._ How could she sound so desperate? Everything had been going so well…what had she done?

The patient regarded her sympathetically. “I know how that must feel. I really am sorry. I don’t mean to disappoint you. And who knows? Perhaps I’m misjudging you. But you really must not make such amateur mistakes. Anyone with a decent brain on their shoulders,” here he nodded toward her, “and you, to be honest, look like a good candidate for such a description, would know better than to think that anything I do is for a _reason._ That’s the fun of it all. The spontaneity, the adrenaline rush you get from leaping off a roof or running through a rain of bullets. Where else do you get such a thrill?” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, still watching her. “When was the last time _you_ ever had fun, Doctor Quinzel?”

Harleen blinked dully at him, trying to follow what he was saying. “We’re not here to talk about me. It’s _your_ therapy session.”

“Is it?” he asked softly, and she almost scoffed at the absurdity of it all.

“This is nonsense. We’re getting off track here, and…”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Doctor Quinzel,” he interrupted, leaning forward for emphasis. “I would never try to do that.”

“Okay. Fine. It’s okay. I just don’t want to go off on too many tangents, all right?” She tapped her fingers against the desk, hoping her face masked her jumbled, confused thoughts. Where was she supposed to go from here? There had been no logical progression of conversation whatsoever, and ten minutes has passed with nothing accomplished. Only twenty left.

Harleen intended to make the most of them.

“Okay. Well, maybe we’ll get back on the subject of names some other day. I’d like to talk about some other things.” She slid the profile page of the file across the table so he could see it. “There aren’t many details filled out on here. Why?”

The inmate looked at the paper with great interest. “Handsome devil, ain’t he?” He nodded at the mugshot and the corner of his mouth quirked up in another smile as if he couldn’t contain his amusement at his own comment. Harleen ignored it.

“Surely it can’t matter to you whether or not they know your age, right?”  
“Speaking of which, how old are _you,_ Doctor Quinzel?” Harleen barely suppressed a frustrated scowl. Was he always this dodgy with the questions?

“I’ll tell you my age if you tell me yours.” she replied, hoping that would evoke some reaction. He chuckled.

“Share and share alike, hm? I don’t really care how old you are.” Still, she saw that brief flash of admiration in his eyes again, or maybe it was just her imagination. “Nice thought though, a bargain. That’s not something I see every day.”

They were both silent for a moment, watching, waiting for the next move. Wordlessly daring each other for something, although neither knew exactly what.

“I’m twenty-four.” Harleen said impulsively. She wasn’t sure why she said it, but maybe, she thought, if she was transparent enough with him, he’d warm up to her. _As if I want a serial killer and psychopath warming up to me._

He smiled, and the smile reminded her of a predator closing in on its prey. She realized what was happening now. He had gotten what he’d wanted…an answer to his own question, while she was left in the dark with her own. It had been so unexpected that she’d completely missed any warning signs before it was too late. 

_Don’t underestimate these people._

“How long are you here, Doctor Quinzel?” he asked, his expression perfectly innocent again. Childlike. Harleen resisted the urge to chew her nails. Anxiety was building inside her as she considered his question. How long _would_ she be here, if she didn’t accomplish anything? One day of her week was just about gone, and that left her with three more chances. Adding the times together, she had a minuscule hour and a half this week to find out at least _something_ about the criminal, or she was finished. Her chance to do something with her life would be gone, and she’d be pushed back to working with no-name lunatics. 

“My sessions with you are only for this week.” she said quietly, and he bolted upright from where he was slumped down in the chair. 

“Only a _week?”_

Hope shot through her. Maybe her chance wasn’t gone after all. “Does it matter to you?”  
“Nothing matters to me, Harl…oh, sorry, Doctor Quin- _zel._ I’ve not let anything matter to me for years. It makes things so much easier, you know. But you do intrigue me, and I’ll be sorry to see you go.” He held her gaze, sincerity shining in his eyes. Harleen didn’t quite believe the latter part of his declaration, but _if_ it was true, things were looking up. She tried to keep an indifferent look on her face.

“I’ll be staying if I fulfill a certain criteria.” she clarified. “Getting certain questions answered and such.”

“About me?” She nodded. “I’m flattered the rabble here cares so deeply about little old _moi,_ but that’s rather unfair to you, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like you could force me to answer your questions.”

“If I was a good psychiatrist, I could.” she said, momentarily deflated. Her guard was back up in an instant, but he’d caught her words.

“Now _that_ is not true, Doctor Quinzel. You’d be surprised what sort of frankly terrible shrinks waltz into this very building with their drugs and their weaselly little minds and find ways to get what they want. Arkham isn’t exactly known for following all the regulations and rules they’re supposed to, if you haven’t noticed.” Harleen frowned. The criminal stared at her intently. “But winning the _trust_ of whatever sad sap they’re trying to figure out, now that’s a whole other ball game. Practically impossible.”

“I want to win your trust.” she said earnestly. And that was true…she was still horrified by the criminal, by the very thought of the things he had done. But he was her responsibility now, at least for the next three days, and Harleen was a sympathetic person. Sitting across from a living, breathing human being was much different than reading a list of crimes and glancing at a mugshot. And despite her feelings, she couldn’t forget the thought that had crossed her mind the day before…did the criminals here really understand the consequences of their actions? Did they understand what they were doing was wrong? They were insane, after all. 

No one seemed to think of that.

He studied her quietly, then smiled. “What happens, hypothetically, if you meet the criteria you were assigned?”  
“I get to keep working with you.” She saw no reason to lie. Those were the stakes, and there was no use saying otherwise. 

He nodded contemplatively, breaking eye contact for the first time to stare at the wall behind her, his expression thoughtful. “What sort of information do you need?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she heard herself saying, “because it’s nothing you’ll answer. Your name, age, what made you look…” She gestured confusedly. “…the way you do.”

“Roguishly handsome, you mean?” he grinned rakishly, tilting his head to the side with a quick, bird-like movement. “I don’t know if you feel the same way, Doctor Quinzel, but the odds seem ridiculously skewed. And not in your favor, I might add.”

“I know.” she couldn’t help but agree. “But it’s what I was given.”

“Would you like to hear my proposition?” he asked, and Harleen glanced sideways at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll take that as an eager yes. I like your style, and it’s a step up from the seedy headshrinkers I usually have to endure. Besides, I’m sure you have your own reasons for wanting to be here.” He regarded her shrewdly. “However, three days isn’t quite the ideal time for developing a _relationship,_ you know.”

“So you’ll tell me what I want to know?”  
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, cupcake.” She frowned at the nickname but chose to overlook it. “I’ll give you information. Whether or not its real, that’s up to you and if you want to keep your job. See what I mean?”

“You want to feed me false information so I can report it and keep working with you?”

“Like I said, you intrigue me. I haven’t quite made up my mind about you yet; _ergo_ , I can’t exactly entrust you with the _truth._ But you deserve a fighting chance, Doctor Quinzel, and I can give it to you.”

“I don’t accept bribes from patients.” she said, with perhaps a little too much snobbishness in her tone. “You’re not in a position to be making offers like that.”

He didn’t look the least bit flustered by her words or voice. “Think it over."

“If you gave me real information, I’d be guaranteed to work here.”

He laughed. “If I give you none, you’re guaranteed a pink slip. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about you that much. Not at all, if I’m being honest. Do what you want, and if you refuse my offer, don’t bother coming tomorrow.”

_When,_ Harleen thought irately, _did he become the one making demands?_ The alarm at the door buzzed and the guards entered. “Time’s up,” one of them said, eyeing the two occupants of the room severely. Harleen stood up, gathering her papers together. The inmate didn’t move, but his eyes followed her every motion. She turned to leave without a second glance back, and his voice stopped her.

“Goodbye, Harleen.” 

It took every ounce of her willpower to ignore it, but Harleen strode out the door unhesitatingly. The moment she was back in her office, she slumped down in the chair with a sigh, burying her face in her hands. She was going back tomorrow…was it even a question? She needed this position, and she would do whatever it took to get there. Whatever hesitation she had felt in that moment was gone. It wasn’t as if she was proud to accept false information and give it away knowingly, but what else could she do? 

_It’s just a step in the process. Get past it, and maybe you’ll actually get some_ real _things figured out. It’s your job, and if this is the way to get there, then fine. At least it’ll help you get there._

Back in his cell, the Joker began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please r&r i'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, and criticisms :)


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me.”

Harleen peered up from underneath her umbrella, flinching in annoyance as raindrops spewed from the gutter above into her face. “I could say the same for you.”

Bruce Wayne smirked, black hair a mass of unruly damp curls. His overcoat was drenched, and he had the collar pulled up to his ears. “Small town, I guess.”

“It’s actually not. Did you get caught on the way to work without your own umbrella?”

“Being a billionaire, I don’t exactly have a day job.” he grinned, sticking his hands into his pockets.

“Of course. Silly me.” she replied drily.

“I’m doing a walk-through inspection of Wayne Enterprises this afternoon, and figured I had time for a stroll before. I guess I wasn’t watching the weather close enough, huh?”

“Yeah, no kidding. You want to borrow mine?” She held out the battered black umbrella to the much taller man, but he shook his head.

“Wouldn’t want you ruining that lovely hair of yours. You have work today?”

“I do. But I don’t start for a few hours. I had the same idea as you, walk around for a bit then get a taxi over there. Guess I wasn’t paying enough attention to the weather either.” She held out a hand ruefully into the torrent that was pouring down on the city. 

“In that case, how about lunch? I know a nice little place down the street.”

Harleen raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking _me?_ We’re not exactly familiars, Wayne.” It was much safer to be abrupt with the man whose blue eyes were just a little too beautiful for comfort. She wasn’t planning on getting lost in them if she could help it.

“But we could be, Quinzel. I don’t think we’re running into each other by chance, do you?” He began walking, and Harleen hurried after him. A cab drove by, almost spraying her with muddy water that had congealed in a pothole, and she averted the disaster by rushing straight into her companion’s back. He turned around and steadied her, and she wrenched her arm away, embarrassed. 

“What, you really believe I’m stalking you?”

“I was talking about fate.” He winked, turning back around. She followed. “You know what they say about fate.”

“I don’t, actually. What do they say?”

“Fate deals the cards, and we have to decide which hand to pick up.” Bruce fell back in step with Harleen, and she suddenly felt a large hand envelop her smaller one. She couldn’t hide a smile at that.

“Your pick-up lines are getting better.”

“So are you down for lunch?” He pulled her aside just before another car raced by, sending a fountain of rainwater at them. Harleen shrugged.

“Who am I to argue with fate?” Sure, she told herself reluctantly, he probably used the same tactic for every girl he'd parade around on his arm every few weeks, but he seemed so sincere that she couldn’t help but imagine she was special.

Bruce smiled. “I like the way you think, Doctor Quinzel.” 

 

\+ + + + + + + +

 

“I like your bracelet.” Shifting in the straightjacket, the pale-faced patient smiled at Harleen. She smiled back tentatively. There was no warmth in her expression, as much as she tried, but if he was going to be friendly, maybe she could gather some information.

“Thank you.”

“It reminds me,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “of one I saw on another young woman’s wrist. It’s practically identical. Except your wrist is attached to your arm, y’know.”

Harleen recoiled at his words, disgust twisting her features involuntarily before they smoothed out into a professionally neutral expression. “Someone you killed?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Oh, certainly not. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to talk about murder victims at the dinner table? And I’ll have you know my manners are _impeccable.”_

Her lips tightened. Maybe he wasn’t going to be friendly. “Okay.”

“Have you considered my offer?” He leaned forward, staring at her intently. A dark green curl fell over his eyes and he tossed it back. The movement reminded her of some contained wild animal…bursting with pent-up energy, untamed and dangerous despite the best efforts.

Oh, right. He had asked her a question.

“I’ve thought about it.” she said coldly. He smiled in anticipation. 

“And if my memory serves, I told you to only return if you wanted to take me up on it. So…” He quirked an eyebrow, his gaze boring into her. Harleen looked away.

“I want to keep working with you. I think we…I think we can accomplish great things.” He nodded enthusiastically, an oddly childlike mannerism. “If the only way to do that is to play along with you, just for these next few days, then I guess…”

“Oh, Doctor Quinzel, I knew you’d see things sensibly.” he interrupted happily. If his hands hadn’t been constrained by the straightjacket, Harleen suspected he would have clapped them. “You have _no_ idea how proud I am of you. Really.”

She suppressed a shudder. The last thing she wanted was this psychopath to be proud of her. “Okay. But after this week, we’re setting things straight. We’re going to start fresh and I’ll wipe the false information off the records.”

“If you want to.” he said agreeably. “It makes no difference to me.”

She flipped to an empty page on her legal pad, clicking her pen open. “I wanted to clear one thing up before we start.”

“I’m all ears. What seems to be the trouble?” He tilted his head to the side. “Don’t say you think I’ve been rude. I’ve tried so _very_ hard to be the nicest I can be. And I certainly hope you don’t think I’m trying to make your job difficult. If I didn’t want you here, I would have said so straight away!”

“If you let me get a word in edgewise, maybe I could tell you.” Harleen said wryly. Try as she might, she couldn’t help the faintly amused smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth. It really was like talking to a child…a child who had been given five black coffees and a hefty dose of LSD. He shut his mouth with a snap as soon as she spoke and nodded mutely. “Thank you. You haven’t done anything wrong, it’s just that I want you to clarify something for me. You said during our first meeting that I wouldn’t believe the truth about you if you told me. What did you mean by that?”

The Joker ( _Patient 2540,_ she corrected herself quickly) looked almost serious. It was an odd, almost surreal thing to see him _not_ smiling or laughing, or at least without that amused glimmer in his eyes. Harleen wondered if she had said the wrong thing.

“Exactly what I said. You’d think I was lying to you, and you’d never accept the real thing.”

“But I would if you’d only tell me.” she said, a little too desperately. “It’s my job to find out who you are.”

“I know, Doctor Quinzel.” His tone was calm, reasonable. He sounded totally sane and it scared her a little. “You think you’d accept the truth, but that’s only because you don’t know what it is. You can’t even accept the truth about yourself, so how can you expect me to believe you when you say that?”

She frowned. “What does that mean, the truth about myself?”

The familiar smile broke through his seriousness. “That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?”

Harleen doodled on the margins of the paper absently. “Okay. Well, let’s get to work. You want to give me a name I can put on record?”

“How about this,” the patient interjected, bouncing up and down in his chair as much as he could with the restraints. Harleen wondered if he ever sat still. It was exhausting to just look at him. “We could do word association. I’ll go first.”

“We are not doing word association today.” she said firmly, and his face fell. She felt a stab of uncertainty, wondering if she should have given in, if it would have opened a door in his willingness to talk to her. But no, she couldn’t second-guess herself here. She was in charge, not this psychopath. “I’ll schedule it for another session.”

“You’re a doll.” He sat back in his seat, smiling again. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

Harleen could see he was in a more talkative mood, and mentally adjusted her original agenda. _Work with the patient,_ she reminded herself. _It's the only way to gain trust._ “I was thinking you could just talk to me. Maybe tell me about your life before all this. You know, any childhood memories you can recall, or anything else you’d be comfortable sharing.”

“I’ll tell you a story,” he said slowly, watching her like a hungry hawk, “if you’ll tell me one.”

Harleen blinked. “Uh, okay. You mean a made-up story, or…”

“No no no. A _real_ story. It’s only fair.”

_I guess it is._ “All right, then. I suppose I can do that. I’d like to hear yours first, though.”

He gave her a long look, and she knew he could tell exactly what she was thinking. If she went first, he’d likely file away the information and leave, smug as ever that he’d yet again gotten her to follow his orders. That wasn’t going to happen again. “Sure thing, Harley.”

Harleen could feel heat fill her face in a rush. She stared helplessly. How had he known her nickname? Only her parents and sometimes her close friends called her that. She hated it…thought it was babyish and dumb, but somehow when he said it in his soft, almost hypnotic voice, it sounded _regal._ Harleen clenched her fists, hating herself with all the disgust she could muster.

_Get ahold of yourself! You’re acting like a idiot kid. Head in the clouds and you’re getting swept away with all this responsibility. Psychopaths are master manipulators, and that’s what he’s trying to do. To break your mind down until you do what he wants. It’s what he does to everyone, and you’re no different._

_You’re not special. So forget it._

Hoping none of her vicious internal monologue showed on her face, Harleen tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and smiled tightly. “Doctor Quinzel, remember.”

“Right.” he smiled. There was no apology in his voice.

She cleared her throat for what seemed like the fiftieth time. The professor of her communications class she took back in her first year of college shouted in her ear. _It’s a tactic to not look so nervous._

_And boy, am I nervous._

“Okay. Your story. Tell me about you.” Even if it wasn’t really the truth, maybe she could gather some new information from what he told her. After all, stories had to start somewhere, and maybe whatever tale he conjured up would have a grain of reality embedded in it somewhere.

“About me.” he echoed contemplatively. He was still staring at her, but now his eyes were distant, as if she wasn’t even there. Like she was made of glass and he was looking at the wall, straight through her. “It’s quite the story. But I’m sure you’ve already guessed that.” Another smile tilted his mouth upward before his expression fell again, searching.

“I didn’t always live in Gotham, y’know. I mean, when I was a kid, I grew up here, but my family moved away. Another city. Dunno what it was called. Sometimes those things just escape you.” He snuck a glance at Harleen, who was listening with a carefully controlled expression.

“Anyway, I had grand plans. Wanted to be a chemist. I might look like a clown after the whole fiasco that happened, but I’m not stupid. You can see that for yourself on my IQ charts. Einstein ain’t got nothing on me.” He paused for a moment to flash her a smile. Harleen didn’t smile back. _Narcissistic personality, check._ “So I went to school, got a degree. Wasn’t easy, but at least I didn’t have to cheat my way through my classes.”

Harleen took off her glasses and busied herself with cleaning them on the hem of her coat, hoping it would hide the guilty flush that had risen to her cheeks. The way he had been looking at her when he said that…it was as if he _knew._ But he couldn’t know, right? It was just a coincidence.

She needed to stop being so paranoid.

“Do you want me to go on?” he asked quietly, and Harleen looked up, shoving her glasses back onto her face. 

“Oh, yes, go on.” she said, a little too quickly. Had he seen the look on her face? But the patient only smiled, like always, and nodded.

“I moved to Gotham as soon as I was out of school. When I got here, I got a job at Ace Chemicals. You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes.” There was speculation that it was where The Joker (the _patient,_ she reminded herself) had first been sighted, and some said his strange looks were the result of an encounter with the toxins that used to be made in that place. But of course, no one knew it it was true. 

“Well, I started working there. It was pretty nice. I mean, the chemicals were pretty strong, and some of the folks I worked with would pass out from prolonged exposure. I never did. Guess those things don’t affect me.” He looked almost proud. “Anyway, one night, I was locking up. Heard this sound from the rafters and I thought maybe someone had broken in, so I went to check. There was this catwalk thingy above the vats where the regulation inspectors would go on their monthly checks, and I went up there to see what the matter was. You know what I saw?” He leaned forward, and there was a light in his eyes Harleen hadn’t seen before. A manic gleam that he seemed barely able to control. She met his gaze.

“What did you see?”

“A _bat.”_ he whispered conspiratorially, practically shaking with excitement. “A great, big black bat that swooped down on the biggest wings I’d ever seen. He landed in front of me, and I couldn’t see his face cause he was wearing a mask.”

Harleen was listening intently now. She’d heard how the criminal was obsessed with the Batman, how he considered them to be two sides of the same coin. The rumors were apparently true.

"He said something I couldn't hear, but it scared me.” The patient’s voice was almost reverent now, his eyes shining. “Scared me more than anything I'd ever seen in my life. I started to run away, but it jumped in front of me, and before I knew it, I tripped over the edge of the catwalk. Last thing I saw was the bat staring up at me, then there was nothing but the chemicals." He smiled blissfully. “And I don't know what happened next.”

Harleen had scribbled down every detail she could manage, her hand cramping up from writing so quickly. He hadn’t promised to tell her the truth, but it had seemed so real, it was hard to believe it was anything but. He’d mentioned the Batman, the chemical plant…all the details. And he sounded so sure. She looked up. “Is that what really happened?”

“No.” he said plainly, settling back in his chair. The light had left his eyes, and he seemed as calm as he had before. Harleen’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t noticed how tensely she’d been holding them until then.

“Oh.” It was impossible to hide the disappointment in her voice. It had seemed so _real._ She’d hoped that maybe…well, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t promised her the truth. She’d known that from the start. “It does seem as if it was influenced by actual events, though. Do you think you’re drawing from parts of your past when you say things like that?”

“You promised me a story of your own, Doctor Quinzel.” he interrupted. “I’m very interested in what you have to say.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t really have much of a story for you.” she admitted. “I haven’t done anything you’d be interested in.”

“You’re probably right, but I’d like to hear it anyway.” 

“It might not be true.”

He smirked. “No doubt.”

Harleen stifled an aggravated sigh. He always had to have the last word, didn’t he? _Harleen, you’ve got to be patient. They don’t understand things the same way as you. And it’s your job to not let that be an issue._

But looking at the inmate’s infuriatingly smug smile, Harleen suspected he was fully aware of what he was doing, and understood his motives perfectly.

Even so, she wasn’t going to let that stop her. That was exactly what he wanted.

“Okay, well, here’s my story. I met this guy the other day. In a bar. I thought he was a serial killer…” She trailed off, realizing she was speaking to one herself. The patient didn't seem to notice. “But he wasn’t. I mean, at least I don't think he is.” She forced a laugh. _This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Sitting in a psychiatry session and I’m the one talking about my life. It’s just messed up._ “We started talking for a while, and I thought he was just some regular guy, but turns out it was actually Bruce Wayne. It was super awkward.” She paused, not sure where to go with this. It was ridiculous enough that she had to tell this story in the first place, and she wished the was good at making stuff up, otherwise she wouldn’t have had to talk about that. She still wasn’t over the embarrassment of it all.

Patient 2540 watched her face intently as she spoke, nodding his head slowly as if she was telling the most fascinating tale he’d ever heard. When she mentioned Bruce’s name, his eyes lit up in interest. “You know Brucie Wayne?” 

Harleen tilted her head, wondering where this was going. “How do you know about him?”

“C’mon, Doctor Quinzel, _everybody_ knows the billionaire boy.” A sly smile danced across his face, as if he was secretly amused at something. “He and I have had our fair share of encounters.”

She raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

He rocked back and forth in his seat, his expression turning distant again. “Nothing much to speak of. Surely nothing _you_ would care about.” He was playing with her now, teasing her curiosity just enough to make her pursue the topic. 

But, she realized, that was what he wanted. He wanted her to be curious, and then he would win by switching the subjects and leaving her empty handed.

_Time to turn the tables._

“Okay.” she said with disinterest, and he looked almost surprised that she hadn’t taken the bait. Surprised, and impressed. _Good. Someone needs to show him he’s not in charge._ “Well, I’ve told you a story and you’ve told me yours. I think we’re about finished up for the day.” It was enough information, false or not, to satisfy Leland. Maybe almost enough to let her stay another week. 

He watched her silently, his emotions unintelligible from his blank expression. “Who gave you your bracelet?”

Harleen twisted the hammered silver band around her wrist uncomfortably, wondering why he was so hung up on such a tiny detail. Maybe he was trying to trick her into letting down her guard, or reveal something about her family that he could use against her. Well, she wasn’t going to fall for that.

“I bought it myself.” A lie, but one that made her feel better. More confident.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “And got it engraved with ‘From Mom and Dad’ too, I see? That’s a cute touch.”

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she pulled the bracelet off her wrist self-consciously, dropping it into her pocket. How had he noticed that? He was much more perceptive than she realized, and it was more than a little unnerving. “I thought it was a different one.” was her mumbled excuse before the guards entered the room. The patient kept his gaze fixed on her, smiling. Harleen fiddled with the bracelet in her pocket uncomfortably, trying to not let any of her emotions show on her face.

_You just can’t catch a break, can you? No matter what, you end up looking like an idiot. If Leland could see you during these sessions…_

Well, there was no question about what would happen _then._

The guards dragged the green-haired patient away, and Harleen kept her eyes on the ground, waiting until the door closed behind them before gathering up her files and notes. Her cheeks were burning with shame and she felt like a helpless little kid again, lost in a world much too big for her.

_You’ve got to try harder,_ she admonished herself sternly. _You can’t give up on this. It’s your chance to make a name for yourself, and some criminal lunatic is not going to ruin that chance for you, okay? You’re better than that. Stronger than that._

_You can’t let him win._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment and let me know what you think...i'd love to hear your thoughts/criticisms/anything else :)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

 

Harleen sat cross-legged on the couch in her apartment, the news playing quietly on the television in the background. She ignored whatever story was flashing across the screen, absorbed in staring at the paper in her hand. The one Bruce had given her after they’d had lunch together at the café earlier that day.

_Call me,_ he’d written under the number scrawled across the thin strip of paper. Harleen gave a half-smile. _You’d think a billionaire would write better than chicken-scratch. Don’t they have tutors and stuff for those things?_ Not that it mattered…Bruce Wayne himself had given her his number. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t anything special; he probably handed out his number as easily as breathing, but she couldn’t help but feel like it was something just for her. 

She picked up her phone and dialed the number slowly, double-checking each digit twice. The dial tone seemed louder than usual in her ear, and she felt her heartbeat speed up. _Why are you freaking out? He’s the one who gave you his number._

_Maybe he won’t answer. What should I do then? Leave a message?_

_No, that’s too desperate. I mean, I just saw him earlier._

_What am I even calling him for?_

Harleen tried to sort out her thoughts as the phone continued to ring. She wasn’t sure what she thought about Bruce Wayne, much less how she _felt_ about him. Or for him.

_Why does everything have to be so complicated?_

_I mean, he probably already has a girlfriend for every day of the week, and then some. What else is a billionaire supposed to do in his free time? It’s not like he’s got a busy life with a job to focus on. He’s gotta find something to occupy him, I guess._

_And you’re just the last in a long line, Harls. So you’d better start accepting that._

She sighed, contemplating hanging up the phone. It was late, and Bruce wouldn’t want to talk to her. If she was being honest with herself, he probably had some other girl over and didn’t have time for some random chick he’d talked to a few times. That’s probably what he thought of her. He probably saw her by herself and thought it would be nice to give her someone to talk to. _The first time he met you, he said he was just trying to pass the time. He doesn’t care about you._

_Why the hell should that matter to you? You don’t even know how you feel about him._

She was just deciding the click the “end call” button when the line picked up and she heard a voice on the other end. “Bruce Wayne, how can I help you?”

She froze, her mind suddenly blanking. What had she called to say anyway? It wasn’t like she had anything important he’d want to know. “I…uh…”

“Harleen?” he inquired, and her eyes grew wide as she fumbled for the right words. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” She cleared her throat. “Hi.”

“Hi to you, too. What’s up?”

She suddenly felt terribly juvenile. Like a teenager drooling over a celebrity crush. _No, Harleen, you’re better than that. Get ahold of yourself._

She straightened up on the couch and tucked her legs under her, her gaze skimming the headlines that ran across the bottom of the TV screen. “I just wanted to say thank you for lunch. It was really fun.” _Nice try, but really? You’re going to interrupt his evening for that?_

Wonder of wonders, Bruce didn’t sound annoyed. “Wasn’t it? I haven’t been to that place in years, and it’s as cozy as I remember it. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yeah.” She pulled on a loose string that dangled from a seam on the edge of the couch. “It was nice, cause I had sort of a rough day at work.” _Jeez, is he the therapist here or something? He isn’t going to care about that._

She was surprised at how serious his tone became. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.” she reassured him hastily. “I didn’t mean anything was really bad or anything, it’s just a tough job, y’know?”

“I’m sure it is. What sort of work are you doing there?”

“Doctor Leland is letting me give psychiatric sessions to an inmate.” She remembered how the patient had said he had met Bruce, but decided against mentioning it. That would just be weird. “I get a week before she gives me an evaluation to say if I can stay or not.” She paused, staring out the window at the neon lights flickering to life on the sign of the nightclub across the street from her apartment. “So I’ve got a lot riding on this, you know?”

“Who are you working with?” He didn’t sound as interested as he did concerned, and Harleen weighed her options for a moment. She could just tell him and get it out in the open… _I’m working with the city’s most dangerous criminal mastermind, and yes I know I’m under qualified and yes I’m aware of the dangers…_ or she could try to avoid all that. 

She decided on the easier option.

“Well, I’m not really allowed to say…” That wasn’t a complete lie; they weren’t supposed to openly discuss the sessions with their patients at Arkham unless it was with a coworker, so she didn’t feel so badly about saying that. “It’s supposed to stay pretty confidential.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and she wondered if Bruce was still there. When he finally spoke, she jumped. “You be careful there, okay?” 

Harleen rolled her eyes. As if she hadn’t heard those same words a trillion and one times already. _I know, all right? I know what I’m doing. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not helpless. Why does everyone have to try to scare me away from this job?_ “Careful is my middle name.” she deadpanned, leaning her head back against the couch.

Bruce chuckled. “Really. That’s a new one.” His tone became sober again. “I’m serious, though. Once some of those inmates get a hold on you, it’s not an easy task to get out. If you ever need help…”

Harleen almost laughed at that. Who did he think he was? _Just because you’re a billionaire doesn’t mean you could even hope to hold your own against any of those criminals in Arkham._ “I’m fine, Bruce.” If she had known this was going to turn into another lecture, she would never have brought it up. “Contrary to what apparently everyone in this world thinks, I’m not going to make a fool of myself.”

She thought she heard him sigh, and considered hanging up. _Why does he have to be such a downer about this? I thought at least_ he _could have a bit of faith in me._ Her mind wandered back to the session earlier in the day.

_“You have no idea how proud I am of you.”_

Harleen shivered. Why did the only person who seemed to appreciate her work have to be a murdering psychopath? It was like the world was trying to work against her. 

Bruce finally spoke again, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to…what I mean is, I don’t want to discourage you. I just want you to realize what you’re getting yourself into.”

Harleen tapped her fingers on the couch impatiently, turning up the volume on the television and watching the news as she listened to the voice on the other line. _And you thought_ he’d _be the one annoyed with this conversation._ “I realized it all when I moved to Gotham and asked for a job at the asylum. I knew what I was doing, and I still do. Thanks for the advice, though.” Before he could respond, she hung up the phone and tossed it to the other end of the couch, her face hot as she wrapped her arms around her legs and stared at the TV, fuming inside. She wasn’t sure if she was mad at Bruce or not…her anger didn’t have a direction, it only spread through her confusedly. She was mad at everyone and everything who kept doubting her, kept trying to keep her down.

“The Batman has targeted another street gang,” the news announcer read off from the paper in his hands, “and was sighted earlier this evening down by the docks. The police were able to issue arrests for at least ten gang members, and we are still waiting to hear whether or not the GCPD was actually able to speak to the Batman in person this time. We have not yet been in contact with this vigilante, although his actions have largely coincided with those of the police force. More at eleven.”

Harleen got up and shuffled into the apartment’s tiny kitchen, stretching her arms over her head. “God, this city is messed up.” she thought aloud, putting on a pot of water to make tea. “No wonder Arkham’s busting at the seams.” Everyone seemed content to let this creepy Batman guy clean up the streets, but what happened then? The small-time criminals would be shipped off to prison, and that was all well and good, but when it came to the Arkham inmates and some of the others, she couldn’t believe the police would just sit back and wait for the vigilante in a cape and mask to beat them up and have them locked away again. 

Everyone knew that was only a temporary fix…Arkham breakouts were notoriously frequent, and anyway, what was anyone expecting the criminals to learn? Most of them didn’t even realize the severity of their actions…were they supposed to have a change or heart or some sudden revelation while sitting in their asylum cells? That would never happen.

And yet everyone in this city thought the Batman was their savior or something.

Harleen took her cup of tea onto the balcony of the apartment, leaning against the rusty railing and staring out over the busy streets below. They had to realize that this vigilante was doing more harm than good, that he was, if anything, part of the problem. Hurting people who didn’t understand why, provoking them to act out even more…it was like he _wanted_ chaos. 

_You’ve got to show them there’s a better way._

And there _was._ She’d known that all along. If she could only fix the problem at the source…show the inmates there were alternatives to breaking out and getting beaten by a winged outlaw…well, maybe she could be the one to really help clean up Gotham. It was a bit of a stretch to say she could do it on her own…that was impossible…but she could start with what she had.

She contemplatively twisted the bracelet on her wrist, remembering how the metal had seemed to burn against her skin when Patient 2540 had pointed it out, and gazed out on the city. 

_If you can change him…if you can do that…you’ll be a better hero than Batman ever will be._

 

_\+ + + + + +_

 

 

 

 

Leland flipped through the file Harleen had handed to her, forehead furrowed in concentration. Harleen twisted her hands together, trying to keep from nervously bouncing her leg as she sat across the desk from the other psychiatrist. The quiet in the room was stifling, only broken by the faint rustle of the pages Leland was slowly turning. When she finally looked up and spoke, Harleen jumped, her nerves tense to the point of breaking.

“He told you all this?”

She nodded, trying to avoid eye contact with the older woman. Leland would be able to read her like an open book if she did. “Yes. Obviously, we can't verify this information so soon. It’ll probably take a while for that, but I thought you would be interested in the progress that’s been going on.”

Leland leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “You do realize he has told former doctors countless other stories about his past? They’ve all been proven lies.”

Harleen frowned. “Right, but why should that matter? Are we just supposed to give up?” She gestured helplessly, trying to explain what she was thinking. “His other stories have been lies, sure. But if we don’t follow up on any potentially true pieces of information, then we’ll never end up learning anything about him. You never know when he might say something, maybe even accidentally, and it turns out to be true. Maybe if that happens, and we do the proper research, we can figure out who he was. And then we can help him.”

Leland narrowed her eyes. “Harleen, I’ve explained this to you before. You are not here to _help_ Patient 2540. He is a criminal who kills innocent people for fun and out of boredom. He doesn’t feel the least bit of remorse, and manipulates everyone around him to get what he wants. I’ve told you, we’re only continuing the sessions because it’s a protocol requirement. He has never said a word of truth to anyone else in the history of his incarceration, so what makes you think he’s suddenly going to go reminiscing with you? You’ve had a total of three sessions with him, and suddenly you’re ready to try and dig up his past identity?”

“I just think…”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Harleen. That’s what I think. And you should, too. I appreciate your enthusiasm for finding information on the patient, but you have to understand that it will probably amount to nothing.” She passed the file back to Harleen disinterestedly, who took it with trembling fingers. Her eyes sparked with anger and she stood up quickly, the chair legs grating against the floor.

“You don’t want me here, do you?” Her voice was as calm as she could make it, but it still wavered with pent-up emotion. She paused, hoping it would grow steadier. “You’re trying to discourage me from working with this man, because you don’t believe I can really do anything. I know that’s what you think. You’re waiting for me to give up and try my luck with someone who’s name hasn’t been on the news every other night. So you’ve backed me into a corner.” She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes and willed herself not to cry. Not now. Not when she was trying to prove herself to the stony-faced woman sitting calmly at the desk in front of her. “You’ve set the stakes impossibly high, dared me to find information no one ever has, and when I work hard for a story that just might be true, you brush it off like it doesn't matter?” 

_Who cares if the story’s a fake and you know it? Who cares about the deal you made with him to keep the job? That doesn't change anything. She wouldn't have faith in you even if you provided indisputable evidence about every criminal in Arkham. She doesn't think you can do it._

“I’m going to prove you wrong.” Harleen gripped the file tightly in both hands, feeling the paper bend between her fingers. She felt the tears well up in her eyes again and tried to blink them away, but one rolled down her cheek before she could stop it. “I’m going to show you…show _everyone…_ that I can be better than you think. You don’t appreciate me now, but just wait. I’m going to make a difference around here, and I _dare_ you to try and stop me.” Her lips trembled, and she drew in a sharp, trembling breath.

_Did you really just say that to your superior?_

Leland remained unperturbed. “Harleen, I’m only trying to give you what’s best for you. I’m trying to save you from a very dangerous situation. You don’t understand, and I don’t blame…”

“No. You’re the one who doesn’t understand. You think I’m not _used_ to Gotham City, that I don’t have the experience you think I need to have, that I’m young and gullible and stupid. You gave me a week to work with the patient and not be scared away, well, guess what? I have one session left, Doctor Joan Leland. _One._ And I’m not scared. I won’t be scared. I’m going to stay here, and I’m going to help these people. I’m going to help _him,_ and I’m going to find out the things that no one else in this place had the guts to find out before.”

“Harleen…”

“And you have to keep your promise. If tomorrow’s session goes well, then I get to stay.”

“Harleen, listen. You mean well, I know you do. You’ve done a good job keeping a level head and working hard with the patient. I heard today’s session went smoothly as well. And I will keep my promise to you. But there’s a reason I am trying to protect you from this lunatic.” She looked Harleen straight in the eye. “I see potential in you. I think you could do great things. And I don’t want that to be lost, Harleen. I don’t want you to lose yourself in this man. You may think you’re ahead of the game right now. Maybe even that you’ve got the upper hand. But believe me, Harleen. Take it from someone who has been here a long time and seen a lot of doctors come and go. No one, and I mean _no one,_ has ever left Arkham the same way they came after working with Patient 2540. And I don't want that to happen to you, too.”

Harleen tossed her head back, brushing her hair out of her face. “Well, maybe that would be a good thing.” she replied coldly. “Considering that no one has any faith in who I am now.” 

Before Leland could say another word, she turned and stalked out the door, clutching the file close to her chest.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

 

"I guess you’ve probably heard about the gala I’m hosting at Wayne Enterprises on Sunday.” Bruce absentmindedly folded the paper napkin in his hands into a triangle, tracing his finger along the edges. Harleen, who had only been half-listening up until this point, having been planning out the next day’s session with Patient 2540 ( _Last day of the week, and your last chance to hold this job down, don’t screw it up_ ), looked up.

“No, I haven’t.” She had, of course, but she didn’t want it to seem like she was _that_ invested in Bruce’s life. Sure, they’d happened upon each other a few times, and tonight he’d actually asked to meet up with her at the Ace of Hearts bar near her apartment, but did that really mean anything? It couldn’t really be a _date,_ could it? Bruce Wayne didn’t date middle class psychiatrists with platinum blonde hair they gave themselves from a box dye kit…he dated models and charity ball organizers and dancers. Hadn’t he run off with the Russian ballet once or something? There was no way he cared about her like _that._

No way in the world.

And she didn't care about him. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep her heart intact. 

“Oh.” Bruce paused, as if he couldn’t quite believe someone _hadn’t_ heard about his gala, and Harleen rolled her eyes, going along with her lie.

“Some of us have better things to do than sit around and listen to the latest update on Gotham’s local billionaire, y’know.”

He cracked a sheepish smile. “You’ve got a point.” Setting down the napkin, he leaned forward on his elbows, catching her gaze. “Well, since you spend your time on better things than me, let me catch you up on some things. For instance, I’m holding a gala at Wayne Enterprises on Sunday.”

Harleen couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, I think we’ve got that established. Why are you telling me?”

Bruce grinned. “I was wondering if you’d like to come.”

She stared at him unbelievingly. “To…your party? Bruce, I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but I’m not insanely rich like you and your gala friends. I mean, do you even know how much a ticket to those things c…”

“Hang on, let me clarify.” Bruce interrupted before she could protest further. “I meant, would you like to come with me? As my plus one. Meaning, you don’t have to pay for a ticket. My treat.”

Harleen narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a date to me.” As soon as she spoke, her cheeks flushed and her gaze faltered. _Great. Now he thinks you’re desperate._

Still, another part of her, the part that wasn’t totally eclipsed by her unwavering belief that Bruce had no reason to even look at her twice, murmured, _Why’s he asking you if he’s not interested?_

Unaware of her endless internal conflict, Bruce gave a smiling half-shrug. “Hey, maybe it is.”

_Jeez,_ Harleen thought ruefully, _now I know why all the girls love him._ How could anyone _not_ be at least a little infatuated by that charisma? She laughed faintly.

“I’m really glad your entire life is constantly exposed to the public, otherwise I really would think you were a serial killer. I’ve heard they’re the smoothest folks out there.” She quirked one eyebrow at him. _You’re not flirting, are you?_ “You don’t have a secret life I don’t know about, do you?”

Bruce gave her a long look at that. “Not many girls like to talk about serial killers as much as you do.”

_Scare him away, why don't you?_ She tried to backtrack. “Sorry. I…I guess…I don’t know, maybe it’s an interest that comes with my line of work. I do have a job at a prison, you know.”

Bruce went back to folding his napkin. “Should I be a little more awkward so you know I’m on the level?”

Harleen pressed a hand to the side of her face in embarrassment. “It’s not you. I just need to learn to shut up.”

“I don’t want you to shut up.” A small smile tilted up the corners of his lips. “I told you before, it’s nice to have someone speak their mind around me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, but sometimes it gets me in trouble.” Her mind flashed back to the session with Patient 2540 two days before, and how carelessly she’d talked about herself…about Bruce. Regret shot through her. What if she had endangered the billionaire by what she’d said? She’d never forgive herself if…well, if something bad happened. It would be her fault. 

“So…” Bruce continued, setting aside the creased paper napkin, “the gala?”

_Oh._ “I don’t…” She cleared her throat, trying to look a bit more dignified than she felt. “I don’t really have anything all that fancy to wear…” Without hesitation, Bruce dug into his pockets and produced a wallet stuffed with enough cash to pay off Harleen’s rent for a year and probably her parent’s mortgage on their country house. “Oh, no no no, I couldn’t…” she began to protest, but Bruce shook his head.

“It wouldn’t be fair of me to invite you to a gala and leave you hanging in the dress department.” He pulled out a wad of bills (hundreds, Harleen realized with wide eyes) and thumbed a few onto the bar’s countertop, pushing them over to her. She picked them up carefully, holding them out like they would explode in her hands.

“When I said I didn’t have anything, you know I wasn’t asking for money,” she started to explain. Bruce chuckled.

“Consider it a present. Payment for saying yes to the gala. After all, you’ll have to spend an entire evening rubbing elbows with Gotham’s elite. I’d say anyone who can do that deserves a gift.”

Harleen smiled tentatively. “To be honest with you, I’ve really never been to any sort of fancy party before. Like, ever. I have no idea…” she shook her head slowly. “Why are you asking me to come with you?”

“Maybe, considering the suspiciously date-like circumstances under which I am asking you, it has something to do with the fact I would like to spend more time with you.” 

She felt her face grow hot and her smile became genuine. “Are you being serious?”

Bruce set down the napkin and linked his fingers together, returning the smile. “Always.”

 

 

_\+ + + + + +_

 

This was it. The last session of the week. This was what determined her future. Just as long as she could make it through this tiny little half-hour without trouble, then she was in the clear. 

Maybe not fully trusted by the other doctors, and maybe it wouldn’t make a difference to them whether or not she made it, but still, it was a start. A start to her own life.

She just had to get through this one final session. That was it.

Thinking about it on the way to the asylum, and even while sitting in her office, it had seemed easy enough. The patient had been compliant and nonthreatening each time, and there had been no indication he was planning on being anything but that today. Still, if he was the master manipulator everyone called him, she wouldn’t put it past him setting some scheme into motion and watching her flounder helplessly in the aftermath. Sure, he had been mostly civil with her, but he was still a sadistic criminal, and no matter how much he professed to have interest in her remaining at Arkham, she couldn’t eliminate the possibility of him turning on her and ruining all her plans.

Even then, she wasn’t sure _how_ he could cause any damage, locked up and secure as he was during their sessions, without any access to any sort of weapon, but still. She wanted to be cautious.

_Just one more day._

The guards brought him in, cuffed him to the chair, and left. Harleen adjusted her glasses and her hand traveled nervously to the necklace she was wearing. Did it look too juvenile? She’d wanted to look professional today, wanted to prove to Leland that she was ready, inside and out, but somehow, the necklace with its round black pearl-beads, coupled with the crimson shirt she wore, suddenly seemed to gaudy for work, too bright. Like she was trying to be noticed. _Well, aren’t you?_

Too late to do anything about it now. 

The door creaked shut as the guards disappeared, and Harleen glanced at the patient before rifling through her papers. Her hands moved quickly, filled with pent-up nervous energy. Before she could say anything, his voice broke the silence.

“You look pretty today.”

Her head shot up and she wrapped her fingers around her necklace again, studying his face for any sign of mockery. There was none. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“The red,” he nodded toward her for emphasis, “looks nice on you.”

Half-expecting some sort of comment about blood or other various gory references, Harleen paused. But it never came. That was a pleasant surprise. “Thank you.” she repeated, not sure what else there was to say.

Maybe she didn’t look so juvenile after all.

“So,” he settled back in the chair, arms shifting in the straightjacket, “what do you have planned for today, doc?”

“Well, this is our last day together for this week,” she began, and he nodded.

“I know. Long as I don’t go crazy or on a killing spree, you’ve got the job, right?”  
She took a deep breath. “You’re not planning on doing that, are you?”

“Mm, no.” he said contemplatively, his gaze wandering off to the wall behind her. “I like you, Doctor Quinzel, and I think we could have some fun together.” He paused. “By fun, I mean these sessions, of course.” 

“So you are interested in continuing to work with me.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He tilted his head to the side. “You’re not like the others.”

“The other what?” Her reflex reaction was resentment…did he think she was inferior to the other doctors, the other workers at Arkham? He was the only one who hadn’t expressed doubt in her so far ( _great, the only person around here who had any faith in you was a criminal madman)_ and it stung more than she cared to admit for him to say that.

“The other stupid shrinks around here.” He caught her gaze and stared intently into her eyes. She noticed flecks of gold in the acid green of his irises. “You’re not like them, doc. You’ve got something special about you. Something they don’t have.”

Harleen smiled before she could stop herself. Was this real? Was he really saying that, or was this some sort of extended hallucination brought on by her stress? _How much did you drink last night?_ No, it _was_ real, it had to be. 

She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but his words brought a happy flush to her cheeks and she looked away, flustered at the praise. It was the first kind thing anyone had said to her around here…everyone else just brushed her aside like she didn’t matter.

She was slowly beginning to realize that the only times she felt like she did matter were when she was sitting in this room.

Harleen shivered. _Don’t let him manipulate you. Don’t let your guard down. Just because he thinks you’re special doesn’t mean that he likes you or wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if he had the chance. Remember, he doesn’t care about anything but himself._

“That’s nice of you to say.” she said distantly, trying to keep a stoic expression. “I’m glad you’re feeling that way. Maybe you’ll eventually feel comfortable talking to me about yourself.”

“Maybe.” he echoed, smiling faintly. Harleen tucked her hair behind her ear, realizing how hot her face felt. 

_Okay, time to focus._

“Hopefully, we will begin weekly sessions next week. Doctor Leland will arrange all that, and they will inform you of what will be happening. But that’s then. We don’t have to worry about it now. I’d like to talk to you about some other things today.”

“Fire away, Doctor Quinzel.” he said softly. 

“Well, I’ve been looking at your file and the different conditions they list you under. Would you mind talking about that a little bit?”

“Not at all. I would love to hear your diagnosis.” he smiled.

Harleen flipped the file open. “Rather than going over them all individually, I’d just like to know what you think.” She leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the paper that sat between them on the table. “Do you think you are insane?”

Patient 2540 stared at her thoughtfully, running his tongue over his lips. He was silent for a long moment, and Harleen wondered if she should have waited to ask such a direct question. But he finally spoke, still watching her with intense eyes. “Do you think the world is fair, doctor?”

She raised an eyebrow, fiddling with her pencil. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward again, straining against the straightjacket. “Do people get what they deserve?” She said nothing. “Does justice really exist, or do we just pretend that so we can feel better? Has your life been fair, do you think, Doctor Quinzel?”

Harleen sighed despite herself, leaning back against the chair. _No. It’s been anything but fair._ All she’d wanted was to do what made her happy. Maybe not feel the crushing pressure of being some successful, smart, _perfect_ person that everyone wanted her to be. And look where she’d ended up. Struggling her way through a tentative job at a decrepit insane asylum, sitting in a therapy session with a criminal who dressed like a clown. 

Patient 2540 took her silence as a cue to keep talking. “You see, fairness doesn’t exist. Justice is a lie. If the world was fair, doc, I’d have visited the electric chair a long time ago. Batsy would have been locked up and sued for destruction of private property and harassment of the mentally ill. The ol’ GCPD would be purged of the lowlife who take payment from the gang families to sell case files and hide their crimes. And I’d bet _you_ wouldn’t be here. You’d be doing what you wanted, and there would be no one to tell you no.” He paused to make sure she was still listening. “ _That_ would be fair.”

Harleen narrowed her eyes. “I don’t pretend the world is fair. I know people don’t get what they deserve, or what they want.”

“They can’t control it.” he supplied. “One day you’re a successful man with a nine-to-five office job, a happy family, and a roof over your head. The next day, your house could burn down, your wife and kids die in a car crash, and the business you work at could go bankrupt. You’d lose it all, with just one funny little twist of fate. Someone didn’t look where they threw the match, they turned into the wrong lane, your boss forgot to hide the fraud that he knew would topple his own company. And whoops-a-daisy, it’s all gone.”

“You’re saying that no one has control over their own fate.”

“That is exactly what I’m saying. Society is ridiculously fragile, Doctor Quinzel, ready to implode in on itself at a moment’s notice, just one little slip-up. We’re sitting on the edge and positioned to fall, no matter what we do. No matter how hard we try to live in a world that’s fair, a world that pretends a man dressed as a bat can actually being justice to a crime-ridden city, it’ll fail in the end. That’s human nature.”

Harleen paused. There was too much in his words that made sense, too much truth that she could see herself reflected in. It was unnerving. “And what do you think we should do about it?”  
“I think,” he said with complete conviction, “that we can do nothing about it, except accept the chaos that this world creates. Accept the chaos, and you’re free. You don’t have to worry about losing everything because you have nothing to lose. The thing is, people call that insanity.”

“What do you call it?” she asked slowly, tapping the eraser of the pencil on the tabletop. Patient 2540 smiled at her.

“Nothing. I don’t mind it if they say I’m crazy. They only say it because they know it’s true. Sooner or later, everyone realizes the truth. Just like I did. Batman will realize it, and it’s only a matter of time before we read the first headline that says the Dark Knight of Gotham killed a man in cold blood. The folks here at Arkham will realize it, and eventually no one will be able to tell apart who were the ones in the cells and who were the ones trying to fix them.” He trailed off, fixing her with an unwavering stare. His green eyes looked like pools of poisonous chemicals, ready to swallow her up. “You’ll realize it too, Doctor Quinzel.”

She shifted in her chair uneasily, a shiver racing up her spine. “The truth, as you call it, is that the only way to be free is to go crazy?”  
“Well, some of us lucky folks were born with it.” He grinned. “So we’ve got a bit of a head start.”

“But that’s what you’re saying, right?” she persisted.

“I say crazy,” he said slowly, “because we have no other word for it. There’s something about the truth that people don’t like. So they take the folks who tell the truth, label them as looney birds, and put them away. That way they don’t have to deal with them. Or the truth.”

“You really believe what you’re saying, don’t you?” she mused, not really meaning to say it aloud. The patient’s eyes glittered.

“Every word. You would too, if only you’d open your eyes. I’ll bet you’ve had your share of struggles. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t get on top. _That’s_ the big joke, the one that everyone refuses to laugh at. If they did, everything would be so much easier.”

“You think chaos is the solution to problems in the world?”

“You think it isn’t?” he shot back, and Harleen paused, trying to collect her thoughts. Her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding like she had just run a mile. Trying to compose herself, she clasped her hands in her lap and sat back. 

“I don’t think you can change things just by embracing your insanity. I think you ignore the rules we make to keep our lives together, and that’s why you’re in prison. Sounds completely rational to me. Maybe not perfectly fair, but rational.”

Patient 2540 tossed his head back, flipping green curls out of his face. There was a gleam in his eye that scared Harleen, but she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t even know how she felt about the conversation they’d just had. Half of her firmly believed that he was delusional, and trying to mess with her head. The other half understood what he had said, and she hated that half because it admitted that okay, he was a criminal and had done things worse than she could ever imagine, but the things he’d said…they weren’t _wrong._

“I don’t expect you to believe it all at once.” he said calmly, and Harleen frowned. “It takes a while to understand that madness really isn’t all they say it is. After all, you’re a psychiatrist. You’ve been taught that madness is wrong, it’s a sickness that has to be cured. But that’s okay if you don’t believe me. You don’t have to. I only wanted you to see what you _could_ be, what you could understand. But there’s one thing I think you should know, Doctor Quinzel, and I think you should remember it.” He leaned forward, the straightjacket pulling him back as he stared into her eyes with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. Intensity, and a glimmer of laughter that danced along the corners of his lips.

“ _I’m_ not the one in the prison.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't usually write much with the joker/harley dynamic, so i'm still trying to get that down...i'd love to hear your feedback in the comments on things you did or didn't like about the way they're written here, since i haven't really written them both in the same fic before :)


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

 

Harleen twined the black ribbon on her dress around her finger, glancing around at the expansive hallway filled with Gotham’s elite. Bruce, who was supposed to have picked her up at her apartment an hour before, had phoned in a rush and said he was really sorry, but something had come up that he couldn’t ignore and could she taxi over, he would pay for it? Harleen had almost refused, irritated that he really couldn’t put whatever it was off for the evening. But Bruce had sounded urgent, as if it really was something incredibly important he needed to take care of, and Harleen didn’t really want to miss the party just because she was mad at him for not picking her up. So she had agreed, but she hadn’t bothered to clear the anger from her voice. Bruce had thanked her quickly, and she was sure she had heard the revving of an engine as he hung up. Wherever he was going, he must have really been in a hurry. She didn’t know any cars with that loud of an engine…he had to have been flooring the pedal or something.

Her arrival at Wayne Manor was nothing less than she’d expected. Bright round lightbulbs hanging from strings that crisscrossed from the roof, lines of wildly expensive cars crowding the driveway, silhouettes of the guests in the giant ceiling-to-floor windows at the front of the house. Climbing out of the taxi and absentmindedly tossing the driver a few dollars, Harleen stared in wonder. Suddenly, she felt very small and very out of place. Her dress, which was red with black ribbons (she had told herself adamantly that she chose those colors _not_ because Patient 2540 had said they looked nice on her, but because it was a pretty dress and it had fit her without alterations) felt bulky and ridiculous. Like she was an extra from a movie who had been invited to an award show. She didn’t belong here.

_Why did you say yes to this? You’re just gonna stand in the corner and be miserable all night. And stupid Bruce isn’t even here to help out. You should just bail and go drinking with some of the Arkham interns._

Except she hadn’t gotten to know any of the interns, and the taxi was already pulling away at the end of the drive. There was nothing to do but go inside.

Slowly, Harleen walked up the steps, staring at the glamor around her. As awkward as she felt, at least she could appreciate the beauty of this place. Slipping inside, she crept along the perimeter of the room, avoiding eye contact with anyone in her way until she reached a shadowy corner. Breathing a sigh of relief, she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, waiting until Bruce showed up. 

Boy, was he getting it tonight. 

_Invites you to his party, makes it sound like he actually wants to spend time with you…no, outright says that…and then he doesn't even show up. It’s his own house, his own gala, and he doesn't show up. What do these people see in him? It must be the money. Because he is the rudest, most inconsiderate..._

“Champagne, miss?” A voice interrupted her thoughts, and Harleen looked up to see an old man holding a platter of champagne glasses. She took one reluctantly. _Well, at least I get to drink rich people booze tonight, if nothing else._

“Thanks.”

“I’m Alfred Pennyworth, miss.” the old man continued. “Master Bruce’s butler. I don’t recall ever seeing you at a gala before.” He peered at her like a hawk, and Harleen frowned. Was he implying that she had snuck in or something?

“Well, it’s my first time at one of these things. Bruce actually invited me to come with him, but obviously he was too busy to remember that.” she added bitterly, taking a sip of the champagne. The butler paused for a moment, looking her up and down.

“Ah, I see. You must forgive him, he was called away rather suddenly earlier this evening. A bit of trouble came up in the city and he had to attend to it.”

“Something with his company?” Harleen asked, wondering what could have happened at Wayne Enterprises that was so urgent, and the butler nodded.

“Quite. However, I’ve received word that he should be back any moment now.” He shuffled away and Harleen rolled her eyes.

_Well, isn’t that nice of him? At least he’ll show up to his own party. What a gentleman._

She finished the champagne and considered accidentally dropping the glass on the ground just to spite Bruce. But no, he was a billionaire. One broken glass wasn’t going to matter to him. He’d just have another one made. After all, didn’t he have an endless supply of money? But then, he couldn’t afford to hire someone to look after the troubles at his company when he was _supposed_ to be taking her on a date to his own house, and really, how hard did it have to be to show up at your _own_ house? 

Harleen was just deciding she had had enough of this party and was going to leave, Bruce or no Bruce, when a voice spoke in her ear.

“You look nice.”

She spun around, straight into the tuxedo-clad billionaire, who was standing behind her in the corner. For a moment she couldn’t think straight, wondering how on earth he had snuck up behind her so silently, but then again, she had been very caught up in her own thoughts. Then she remembered she was mad at him, and crossed her arms, turning away.

“Well, look who showed up. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. Harleen noticed it wasn’t carefully styled like usual. _Can’t even be bothered to look nice for his own party._ she thought scornfully.

“I'm really sorry, Harleen. And I know that doesn't do much good now after I bailed out on you, but please believe me when I say I would never have done that if this was in any way avoidable. I just..." He rubbed the back of his neck, “I just got called away very unexpectedly."

“Well, you’d better have a good explanation for it.” she said stonily. Bruce chewed his lip.

“I…look, here’s the thing. I’m really sorry, and I know this makes it sound like I was just bailing out because I don’t care, but I can’t tell you. It’s a…um, a private matter, and one I’m not at liberty to discuss. So the only explanation I can offer is that this was unavoidable and if it wasn’t important I would never have done it.”

Harleen stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just…God, I’m sorry.” Bruce muttered. “I’m really sorry. You don’t deserve this, and I know I owe you an explanation. It’s just…it’s complicated, okay? That’s all I can say.”

Harleen twisted her hands together, watching the lights on the ceiling reflect on the polished wooden floor. Part of her wanted to stay bitter, wanted to storm out angrily and never speak to Bruce again. But the other part wanted so desperately to belong, to be someone important, and after all, this was a party with Gotham’s most famous, rich citizens. Why would she pass this up for moping around at home and watching TV? No, she had to stay, had to prove that she could mean something. This was an opportunity dropped right into her hands, and she wasn’t going to pass it up.

“Okay.” she said quietly, without much conviction. Bruce looked torn, like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Um. So…do you want to dance?” he muttered, messing with the cuffs of his jacket like a little kid dressed up in a suit and not happy about it. Harleen shrugged.

“Guess so. What else are we supposed to do at these things?”

He cracked a smile, leading her out onto the middle of the floor under the lights. “Eat some of the snacks they put out, talk to the guests, and maybe I’ll make a little speech near the end asking for donations. That’s usually the standard procedure.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Harleen commented, falling into step with Bruce as the music swelled around him. She watched his blue eyes shining in the light and her anger began melting away. After all, he was just a dumb billionaire, right? What could he have been doing that was so bad? Maybe he was telling the truth and it really had been an urgent matter, and maybe that was good enough reason to not pick her up for his party. And she was here anyway, right? So it didn’t really matter.

“Yeah, but boring.” he sighed, avoiding an older couple who appeared beside them. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Hey, you’d better be glad you showed up when you did.” Harleen gave a half-smile. “I was getting ready to leave.”

“How did your last session at Arkham go on Friday?” he asked, as if anxious to change the subject. Harleen really smiled this time, her cheeks growing warm with a proud flush.

“Doctor Leland gave me the green light for weekly sessions with my patient. As long as there’s no trouble and we remain supervised.” The giddy realization still hadn’t worn off from when she’d received the news yesterday, and just the thought that she had actually succeeded in her goal was enough to make her laugh in disbelief and excitement. Bruce smiled at her, although she still saw that unease flicker in his eyes, and it dimmed some of her joy. _He still doesn’t have faith in you._

“That’s good news.” he said without much enthusiasm, although she could tell he was trying to sound pleased. “And you’re still not at liberty to talk about it?”

“No.” she said evasively, not wanting to spoil the evening by bringing up a topic that Bruce so clearly disagreed with. “It’s a protocol thing. I would tell you, but…” _But I don’t want another lecture about how I’m not ready to work with such a dangerous criminal. I didn’t even want to talk about it tonight. I just wanted to enjoy the party. Maybe have fun for once._

“That’s okay.” Bruce said distantly, looking over her shoulder at the crowd around them, like he was searching for something. Harleen watched the light from the crystal chandeliers above them reflect in his blue eyes. “I don’t want you to get in trouble with Joan for talking about things you’re not supposed to.”

That reminded Harleen of something she had been wondering about. “You've mentioned before that you know her.”

“We’ve worked together on a few occasions. I’ve donated to Arkham once or twice after a string of security breaches a few years ago, and that was when I officially met her.”

“Why did you care?” she asked curiously over the music. “I mean, isn’t it the police’s job to take care of those things?”

Bruce smiled faintly, his mouth stretching into a thin line. “Harleen, there’s a lot of crime in this city. The police need as much help as they can get.”

“Is that why everyone in Gotham is obsessed with that vigilante?” The words were out of her mouth before she could help herself, and she stifled a groan. Great, now she was practically diving headfirst into another argument. Bruce loved this city…of course he would be on the side of the guy who seemed to be cleaning up the streets. 

_Can’t you just go one minute without getting yourself into trouble?_

To her surprise, Bruce didn’t seem put off by her tone. “You mean the Batman?”

  
“Yes.”

For the briefest of seconds, she thought she felt his hand tighten around her waist, like he was nervous. Then it was gone, and Bruce was staring over her shoulder again. But this time he didn't seem to be looking for someone. It was more like he was trying to avoid eye contact. Harleen rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. _He has to admire Batman, I’m sure. I mean, come on, he's the face of Gotham City. It would look terrible for him to say anything bad about the guy everyone around here apparently loves._

And then Bruce gave the worst possible response. “What do _you_ think about the Batman, Harleen?”

_Oh, great._

She nearly smudged her lipstick from chewing on her bottom lip, her own gaze drifting away from him as she tried to to formulate the most neutral response possible. “Um. You know, I haven’t been back in Gotham for a while, so I dunno if I really have an opinion…”

“Everyone has an opinion on Batman.” Bruce said drily, guiding them around a couple who were talking loudly. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

_Fine, you asked._

“Here’s the thing,” she began, staring at his tie, which was the only thing at her eye level. “I work with the criminals in Arkham, and I’ve seen firsthand what they’re like. How they think. How they don’t always understand the consequences of their actions. I mean, come on, there’s a reason they aren’t in Blackgate or on death row. They’re in a _mental hospital._ And they get bored, so they devise ways to escape. Because no one cares about them until they’re running around loose in the city. They’re looking for attention, and Batman gives it to them. But he does it in all the wrong ways. He hurts them, beats them up, and they think it’s _fun_ because it’s the only way they can get attention.” She didn’t realize how her voice had risen until she stopped, and noticed the people around her staring at her. She cleared her throat and her gaze dropped to the floor. Her face felt hot, and her heart was thudding against her ribcage. 

“I just think…” she started again, quieter this time, “I don’t think they understand. I know I haven’t been working there very long, but it just seems to me…” She shook her head, trying to explain, “it seems like Batman isn’t stopping the problem. He’s fueling it. The inmates try to get out of Arkham because they know he’ll be waiting for them. He’s the consistency in their worlds. They depend on him.”

She felt like she was back in the therapy room, sitting at the cold metal table and staring at the inmate across from her. She could see his eyes, those intense, green pools of insanity, so confident, so self-assured that he was right about everything. And behind that confidence, an impatience constantly smoldering like embers…a need to break free from everything, so strong that she couldn’t help but feel it too. 

Harleen shivered, knowing she wasn't talking about all the inmates anymore. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she never had been.

It was just him.

“What do I know?” Her voice was softer this time, and she stared at the polished floor as their shadows flickered across it in the dimming light. “Maybe I’m the only one who sees what the problem is. Maybe there isn’t a problem. I’ve been wrong before.” _All the time._ “I just think we need to help them.”

“What if they’re not willing to accept help?” Bruce countered quietly. There was something in his expression…something almost sad. Harleen shook her head.

“They _are,_ though. I’m sure of it. They just haven’t been given the opportunity, you know? They’re not just _evil,_ Bruce. They’ve been mistreated, neglected…jeez, the patient I’m working with now, Doctor Leland all but said they only keep up with therapy sessions because the doctors would go to jail otherwise. No one cares about them, Bruce. They’re looking for attention, even if they don’t realize it.”

Bruce was staring at her intently, his expression suddenly unreadable. “I realize they aren’t purely evil. And I realize they don’t always comprehend the consequences of their actions. But Harleen, someone has to stop them.”

“Gotham does have a police force, if Batman would let them do their job for once.”

“When there are criminals like Arkham’s running free, there needs to be someone equal to that to stop them.”

“Equally crazy, you mean? Just like everyone else in this city who thinks Batman’s necessary. Do you realize what sort of setbacks he’s causing to us psychiatrists at Arkham? My patient even said…” She shut her mouth with a snap, looking away. Bruce didn’t take his eyes off her.

"They said what, Harleen?”

The music was still playing, but the room felt too quiet. She cleared her throat and turned back to him, choosing her words slowly. “It's not just my patient. They’re all obsessed with him. All the inmates. Leland even calls them a rogue gallery for how often they get out of that place. And it's all for Batman. He’s constantly on their minds. I can’t get through a single session without my patient mentioning his precious _Batsy…_ I…”

“Harleen.” Bruce cut her off, his features going taut. His voice sounded strained, and this time he _did_ hold onto her waist tighter. They were both silent for a moment.

“What?” she asked tentatively, wondering what was going through his mind. Bruce drew in a long breath and his eyes seemed to grow darker. But maybe it was just the lighting.

“Are you…” He shook his head slowly, watching as an older man with straw-colored hair and a mustache entered the room, cutting through the crowd toward them. “Hang on.”

He pushed past the dancing couples, and Harleen followed on his heels. They met in the middle with the newcomer, and he nodded at Harleen civilly before turning to Bruce, who raised an eyebrow.

“Jim, what…”

“Sorry, Bruce, I don’t mean to interrupt your party. I won’t stay long, either, I just needed to give up the update from tonight. Maybe you didn’t hear about it if you’ve been at the house for awhile…”

“He just got here.” Harleen offered, and was more than a little offended when Bruce quickly spoke over her. 

“I’ve been busy. What’s wrong?”

Harleen crossed her arms and sighed loudly enough for Bruce to realize he’d been rude. But he wasn’t paying attention. He was listening to the mustached man, who, Harleen realized from the badge he was wearing on his lapel, was the police commissioner. 

_Why is he here talking to Bruce?_

“Nothing happened, fortunately, but I wanted to warn you.” She’d missed the first part of what the man had said, caught up in her own irritation, and looked up at Bruce, waiting to hear his response.

“Thanks. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“Okay. I need to head over to Arkham now. Make sure everything goes fine over there.”

Harleen frowned. “What’s happening at Arkham?”

The commissioner glanced at her. “Is she with you, Bruce?”

“Oh, uh, yes. This is Harleen Quinzel. Harleen, Jim Gordon.”

“Pleasure. And don’t worry about Arkham. It’s perfectly safe here, and I’m sure nothing is going to go wrong, any…”

“No, you don’t understand. I work at Arkham.” she interrupted, and Gordon’s eyes narrowed. 

“You work at the asylum?” he echoed. “Then why didn’t you hear what happened tonight?”

“I was here.” she replied indignantly. _Why is this suddenly my fault?_ Her hand twined around her necklace (the same one she’d worn the other day to the therapy session) like a defense reflex. “I’m not working until Tuesday.”

“Well, basically, there was a breakout.” Jim said shortly. “One of the maximum-security inmates. He was planning on destroying Wayne Manor, apparently. If the C4 in the truck he got ahold of are any indication.” He sniffed. “And besides the fact he outright said he wanted to see Bruce Wayne’s house go up in flames.”

“Which patient was it?” Harleen interrupted again, and Bruce looked at her silently, studying her face. She turned away from him.

“Th—" Jim started, but Bruce cut him off.

“It’s really not important. Come on, Harleen, let’s go back.” He tried to guide her away, but she twisted out of his grasp and turned back to the commissioner.

“This could involve me. I work with patients at Arkham. I have an obligation…”

“Harleen…”

“Leave me alone.” she snapped, pushing Bruce away. “Please, Commissioner, I need to know what’s going on.” _I deserve to know. This is my job._ “Just tell me what inmate got out. Please.”

Jim Gordon looked torn, and he rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. “Well, if you must know, it, uh, was The Joker. I don’t know what you call him at Arkham, but at the GCPD that’s his…”

Harleen wasn’t listening. _I told you. I told you. Wasn’t I just saying this? This is Batman’s fault. If he didn’t provoke these people into action, they would never…he would never…I could have_ helped _him, but Batman is ruining everything. He’s going to ruin everything again, I know it. All my hard work…_

She drew a shaking breath. “Was anyone killed?”

“No.” the commissioner felt in his pocket for a cigarette and placed one, unlit, between his teeth. “The Bat got to him first. Gave us time to get on the scene and take him back to Arkham.”

She turned to Bruce, not knowing what to say but knowing she had to leave. Had to get back…this was her job. She needed to do this. Needed to help repair all the damage Batman was doing. 

“Bruce, I have to go.” He stared at her, motionless. She thought she saw a flicker of something deeply worried in his eyes, but she wasn’t sure. “I have to go, okay?” She placed a hand on his arm, then turned and half-ran through the crowd. She heard him following her.

“Harleen, wait. Please.” He stepped in front of her almost desperately, catching hold of her shoulder. “I need you to listen. Just for a moment. Please, just listen to me.” His eyes were fixed on her face, like he was reading her mind. “You…you can’t…”

She shrugged him off. “Stop telling me what I can’t do, okay? Everyone around here thinks I’m gonna fail, well maybe they should just step back and actually let me have a _chance_ first. They won’t even let me try. And I don’t want you to do that too, Bruce. Please, not you.”

“Harleen, don’t. Don’t do this. You’re…”

“What? I’m gonna regret it?” Her eyes flashed fire at him. “Not like I haven’t heard _that_ line a billion times already. But look where I am! I’m working _firsthand_ with Gotham’s most _feared_ criminal inmate, and am I dead, scared off, or crazy yet?” She spread her arms. “Look! I’m still here! And I’m not leaving. No matter what you say, or Leland says, or _anyone._ I’m gonna stay, and I’m gonna _help_ him. If Batman’s going to ruin everything, then he’ll have to go through me first, because my patient _deserves_ the chance for someone to help him, okay?”

“The Joker doesn’t deserve anything.” Bruce retorted venomously, his expression suddenly and frighteningly dark. She stepped back, startled at how furious he sounded. “He’s a murderous, manipulative, deranged and unrepentant maniac, and you’re going to lose yourself if you keep doing this.”

Harleen clenched her fists. “Oh yeah? What do _you_ know about him, Bruce? You haven’t spent four entire days in a row speaking face-to-face with him, _listening_ to him, trying to _help_ him."  


"Four days is not a lot, Harleen, and you know it."

"You just know what you see on the news, all the headlines about what he’s done. So what do you really know about him, Bruce? Because I’m willing to bet it’s not much.”

Bruce was silent, his jaw clenched and his shoulders stiff. Harleen raised an eyebrow.

“Good answer. Now if you’ll _excuse_ me, I need to go do my _job.”_ She pushed past him, ignoring the way his eyes followed her every move, and practically ran out the door. She pulled her phone from her purse and dialed the number she’d called for the taxi earlier, hoping someone was in the area. If they weren’t, then she was going to just stand outside until they got to the house. There was no way she was going back in there, no way she was going to face Bruce again. 

_He has no right telling you what to do. He doesn’t know anything about the J…about Patient 2540. He doesn’t know, so why should he tell you what you’re allowed to do? He shouldn’t, and that’s it. There’s nothing more to say about it._

 

 

\+ + + + + + + +

 

The taxi stopped at the towering iron gate that led the way into the asylum grounds, and Harleen climbed out, almost forgetting her purse in the process. Running up the road to the employees side door, she realized she was still in the dress from the party, only now the knee-length skirt was rumpled and one of the black ribbons had come undone. 

_Like any of that matters._

Inside, she half-ran down the hall toward the maximum security ward, her feet pattering against the smooth linoleum floor. Yellow-tinted lights broke through the darkness at intervals, attached to the walls every twenty feet or so. It was quiet in the hall, and she realized just how late in the nighttime it actually was. 

Harleen was a surprised at how familiar everything felt here. Like she was coming home. Or at least a place where she was wanted. _Yeah, right. No one really wants you here, do they?_ Her breath hitched in her throat and she turned the corner that led into the cell block, her eyes wide and searching for anyone who might be around.

The area was quiet, and she slowed her steps as she crept from cell to cell, searching for the right one. It was dark in the hall, and most of the inmates were asleep or ignoring her. She hadn’t been in this section of the ward yet, only the offices and the therapy rooms, and it was unnerving to see so many rows of bars lining the walls, knowing ruthless killers and psychotic maniacs sat behind them.

Her phone buzzed from in her purse, and she glanced at the caller ID. _Bruce Wayne._ Gritting her teeth, she ignored it and continued down the hall, muttering the cell numbers under her breath. She had no idea which one was _his,_ but there were only about twenty cells in this ward anyway. She could find it soon enough.

Reaching the end of the hall, a movement in the corner of one cell caught her eye and she swiveled around, sucking in a breath. She was suddenly and completely unsure what she was supposed to say. After all, despite what she’d told Bruce and the commissioner, this wasn’t really part of her job. She was just the psychiatrist. When all was said and done, all she had to do was therapy sessions and reports. In fact, hadn't she even promised Leland that she wouldn't interact with him outside of those times?

But she couldn’t bear to think of all her hard work going to waste. Not when she was finally on the right track…

Harleen wrapped her hands around the cold bars, staring into the cell. “Hey.” she whispered, when nothing else came to mind. _Too casual?_ Probably, but what else was she supposed to say? The figure in the corner shifted, his head snapping up to look at her before lolling to the side.

“Doctor Quinzel…” She could see him smiling, even in the dark, and watched as he struggled to stand up, leaning against the wall for a moment before limping over to her. His face was a mass of bruises, and there was dried blood covering a gash on his right temple. Tilting his head to the side to pop the joints in his neck, he surveyed her curiously. “What are you doing here?”

He was so close, dangerously close, and Harleen stepped back nervously. If he wanted, he could reach through the bars…his arms were thin enough…and drag her toward him. Maybe even kill her. She lost her breath for a moment at the thought. The most dangerous murderer in Gotham was only an arm’s reach away from her. 

It was terrifying, but at the same time, she knew he wasn’t going to kill her. 

_He could,_ part of her mind argued, but the other part insisted, _He won’t._

She didn’t have a reason to believe it. She just knew it was true.

Instead of backing away, she inched closer. “Who did this?” she murmured, although she knew. _Everyone_ knew. 

He licked blood off his lip, leaning his forehead against the bars wearily, although there was a bright spark in his eyes that made them almost glow in the darkness. Harleen stepped back again. “They’re not gonna fire you because of what I did, are they?” he asked. Her eyes widened. 

“I…” She shook her head, trying to repress anything else she wanted to say. In truth, she didn't even know  _what_ she would say, but she couldn't risk letting her guard down and going off on some very unprofessional rant that she very much wanted to give.  _Are they really so blind that they can't see the problem with this? Do they really idolize the Batman so much that nothing else matters?_ “I don’t know. But…but that’s not what I’m worried about. Look at what they _did_ to you!”

“Oh, this?” He sounded completely unconcerned. “Just a little two-step Batsy and I had tonight. He went easy on me this time.” He rolled his eyes, looking almost disappointed. “All that work, and I don’t even get a broken nose for my efforts.” 

Harleen stared at him. “You mean you _like_ getting beaten up by him?” She knew he was obsessed with the vigilante, but this was too far.

The prisoner shrugged, still leaning against the bars. “Keeps me from getting bored.”

“You shouldn’t have to resort to being hurt to not be bored.” she protested.

“What else is there to do around here?” he countered, his eyes inadvertently closing for a moment. Harleen could see the exhaustion written all over his gaunt face, could hear it in his cracked voice, and she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why someone could even dream of putting themselves through so much just for a scrap of attention. 

_He’s the only one who understands. Because he’s the only one who thinks it makes sense._

“I don’t want this to keep happening.” She was trying to sound the same as she did in their sessions, the same distant, completely clinical doctor, but somehow she couldn’t remember what that was like. And somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. “To you. I don’t care about my job, or if they fire me, or anything like that. I just don’t want to see you like this.”

“ _This_ is Arkham.” he said softly, dangling one arm through the bars. Harleen didn’t move. “This is captivity, this is denial, this is repression. All tied together into this thing we call an asylum. It's ready to burst at the seams from how much they keep inside. But don’t worry. About me, or about you, or about anything." His voice had that familiar lilt to it again, the one that signaled he was absorbed in his own world. "That’s what this is all about. I told you that. We’re all waiting on the edge, and I just want to be there when we all fall. I want to see it in their eyes. Life…" He waved a hand airily, and she realized this was the first time she hadn't seen him in a straightjacket. It was scary to think about, but she didn't run away. She couldn't. "it’s just one big circus without a ringmaster, and the lions are running wild, the hoops aren’t the only things on fire, and someone cut the rope on the trapeze. I just want them to _wake up_ and realize that.” His voice drifted off as his eyes closed again, and Harleen didn’t notice that she had come closer to the bars until then. 

“Then there’s nothing I can do to stop you.” she murmured, staring at his battered face with distant eyes. “But I…I just wanted to have a chance with you. To help you. And if you keep doing this, you’ll get yourself killed.”

“What is life without death?” he giggled faintly. “Pretty boring, if you ask me.”

Harleen opened her mouth to say something, but there was nothing to say. Nothing that would matter. Not to her, and certainly not to him. She sighed, and he reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against her necklace. Harleen froze, half of her still suspecting he was going to suddenly strangle her or gouge her eyes out. But he didn’t, and a moment later he let his hand fall back, glancing up at her through two black eyes.

“You’re wearing it again.” he noted, and she nodded silently. The cell looked smaller and colder than it had before, and indignation shot through Harleen as she thought about him huddled in the corner all night, alone in the dark. Sure, he was a criminal, but he was her patient, and she couldn’t help but want to protect him. 

His voice broke through her thoughts. “You do look nice in red and black.”

She glanced down at her dress, then jumped as her phone buzzed again. He stepped back from the bars, retreating into the corner again. Harleen turned away, wondering if she should say goodbye, but aware she had already crossed way too many boundaries tonight. So she was silent, quickening her steps as she retreated down the hall.

The moment she was out of sight, the Joker flopped down on his back on the cell floor, his face stretching into a wide grin. Running a hand through his tangled green hair, he stared up at the ceiling, memorizing the familiar pattern of the concrete. “Doctor Harleen Quinzel.” he muttered, batting his eyes at nothing. A laugh rose in his throat. “You came all this way…left Brucie’s very own party…all for little old me. What a _doll_ you are.” 

He tucked his hands behind his head, savoring the way the bruises on his face blossomed with pain whenever he so much as twitched a muscle. Another present from the beloved Bat. “An absolute doll.” It was worth it, knowing she’d come. Testing her faith and seeing how horrified she’d been, how her dying faith in Gotham’s Dark Knight flickered and extinguished itself when she saw firsthand the damage he could do. They were on the right track, he knew. 

But then again, he’d known that the whole time. He was never wrong.

“And playtime’s only just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw you can find me on tumblr at inc0rrect-dc i post batman memes if you like that stuff


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

 

Harleen stared miserably out the window, watching the rain pound against the glass and listening to the thunder shaking the building’s foundation. A cold cup of tea sat by her hand, untouched. The television was on, the sound no more than white noise in the background as she closed her eyes and tried to not be so consumed with regret and guilt. 

_How could you have done something so stupid?_

She had let her guard down…dropped all pretenses of being the professional, skilled psychiatrist she was trying so hard to be…compromised everything she had fought for. What had happened? What had made her so careless? If someone had seen her, alone in the maximum security wing, talking unsupervised to the _Joker_ (her racing mind didn’t bother to correct the name to Patient 2540 this time) of all people…she didn’t even want to think about what could have happened. 

_Then don’t think about it. No one saw you. No one knows about it. You’re safe. Just put it behind you._

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to walk into work on Tuesday and sit down at that table, look _him_ in the eyes, and pretend it had never happened. She could barely summon the courage to even think about ever going back to Arkham after that. She hadn’t even been working one full week on this job and she’d already screwed up. All because she was so desperate for her inconsequential amount of work to be preserved.

The irony, she thought bitterly, was that she had probably done more damage to their progress than Batman had. She’d broken past her impartial, clinical exterior she’d worked so hard to maintain, and who knew where _that_ would lead? Would he even bother to have sessions with her anymore, now that he realized she was an absolute idiot with no self-control? Or would he try to manipulate her like he had all the others, now that he had seen how easy it was to break down her barriers? 

Whatever would happen, it was her fault. _Big surprise there, Harleen. Why can’t you do anything_ right _for once?_ She sighed angrily, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. _Ugh. I hate this job. I hate this city. I hate Batman, I hate Arkham, I…_

Her phone rang, startling her out of her bad mood. She picked it up and glanced at the screen. 

Bruce Wayne.

_Oh God._

She hadn’t spoken to Bruce after the night of his party. To be fair, it _had_ only been last night, but it felt like a hundred years. He hadn’t called until now, and Harleen had begun to wonder if he was so mad he was never going to talk to her again.

Not that _she_ wasn’t mad too…just because she had screwed up did _not_ mean he was off the hook. 

Still, it gnawed at her conscience that he had been at least a little bit right. 

She _wasn’t_ prepared to work with the Joker.

She rubbed her forehead, staring at the screen as the phone continued to ring. Half of her wanted to pick it up, but the other half was too ashamed. Too angry, too. Sure, he may have been _sort_ of right, but it wasn’t going to help anyone if he just kept telling her she wasn’t good enough. What sort of date did that? And on top of that, he’d been arguing with her about Batman, too. 

But as much as she hated to admit it, he was all she had right now. The only person she considered a real friend, although he annoyed the hell out of her sometimes.

And she needed a friend right now.

Reluctantly, she picked up the phone, her gaze turning back to the dreary cityscape outside. “Hi.” she mumbled, flopping down on the couch. _Go on, spit it out. How you were just trying to protect me, blah blah blah._

“Hey.” He sounded tentative, like he was testing the emotional waters. Harleen wasn’t planning on letting him off easily, but she was in a bad enough mood already, and she didn’t want any more arguments on her plate tonight. “I, uh, wanted to see if you were all right. Since I haven’t heard from you.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know calling you every hour of the day was part of the contract.” She’d meant it to sound bitter and clever, but it came out much too soft for that. _Nice try, Harleen. Now he knows you’re miserable, too._

She thought she heard a smile in his voice, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. “I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you got home safely.”

_Oh yeah, I got home safely. After risking my job and my entire reputation for some psychopath who got beat up by a guy in a bat costume. Sure, I got home just fine. Don’t worry about me._ Instead of saying any of that, she replied, “I did. Thanks for checking, I guess.”

“Yeah.” They were both silent, listening to each other breathing on the end of the line. Harleen ran a hand through her hair and stared blankly at the television, waiting for Bruce to restart the conversation.

“So.” he cleared his throat. “Are you mad?”

Well, that was one way to get to the problem. At least he wasn’t going to skirt around it. “I mean, I don't think you need to be advising me on the job I rightfully got."

“I know.” He really did sound sincere this time, not like he was just trying to appease her. “I just…it’s one of those things, you know? Where you can sense something bad is going to happen and you don’t do anything about it, and by the time you work up the courage to say something, it’s too late. I didn’t want that to happen, that’s all.”

“So you think something bad is going to happen.” She picked up the coffee mug with the cold tea and swirled the contents around absentmindedly.

“I just don’t see why you want to put yourself in danger, Harleen.”

“Bruce, I’m not _trying_ to do dangerous things. I just want to make a difference, okay? And I really, really think I have a chance with…” The name lingered unspoken on her lips. “…with my patient.”

She heard Bruce sigh on the other line. “I’m not going to convince you to change your mind, am I?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He sounded reluctant, like he didn’t want to drop the matter so quickly, but also defeated. She hated that it had to come to this, but she couldn’t back down. This was her _chance,_ her opportunity to be noticed. To be appreciated. She wasn’t going to throw that away because Bruce Wayne didn’t believe in her.

Still, it stung more than she cared to admit that he didn’t.

“If I can’t make you give this up, then I won’t try. Just be careful, okay? I need you to promise me that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break, Bruce, I’m not a little kid. I know how to take care of myself.”

“I know.” he said softly. “Just promise me.”

“Fine, okay. I promise. Happy?”

“Sure.” He hesitated. “So, friends again?”

A smile quirked at the corners of Harleen’s mouth. _You hopeless romantic. You just can’t walk away, can you?_

“Yeah. Friends again.”

Outside, the thunder crackled across the rooftops in the stormy grey sky.

 

 

\+ + + + + + + +

 

He was staring at her with that unshakable gaze, his green eyes so intent she felt they would burn a hole in her if she met them with her own. Instead, she tapped her pencil on the table and flipped through the notebook she'd brought with her, ignoring the doodles of Bruce's name in the margins. _Good grief, what are you, twelve?_ Instead, she studied the actual notes, the lists she’d made about the patient's personality and reasons for escaping Arkham.

“I thought we’d start today with…”

“You’re not wearing the necklace.” he interrupted, and despite herself, Harleen’s head jerked up, catching his stare. He lifted one eyebrow inquisitively and she shrugged.

“No. I’m not. As I was saying…”

“You should wear it every week. I like it.”

“I’ll wear what I want to wear. It’s not really up to you.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The other night. Everything that happened. I thought you might want to talk about it.”

Harleen swallowed nervously, hoping no one was listening in secretly. If anyone found out about this, she was screwed. “About how you broke out of Arkham, you mean?”

“Oh, sure, we can talk about that if you’re interested.” His battered fact broke into a grin. “But what I meant was the part where _you_ come in.”

Harleen drew a long breath. “Look, the reason I came here then was because I wanted to make sure no one needed me. Since I’m your therapist, I thought…”

“Is that really all?” He leaned forward slightly, still staring at her. Harleen felt like her face was on fire.

_What is he suggesting?_ “Of _course_ that’s really all. I was just trying to do my job. I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”

“That you care about me, of course.” he said unabashedly. Harleen's stomach flipped and she crossed her arms defensively, trying to return his stare. Instead, her gaze faltered and dropped back down to the notebook in front of her.

“You’re my patient. I care about your wellbeing.”

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant, Harleen.”

“Doctor _Quinzel.”_ Her voice rose abruptly and she glared at him. “And you have no business trying to say I care for you. That’s ridiculous and a _lie._ I mean, I’ve only been working here for a week, and…”

“So you think you could come to care for me if we had more time together?” he interrupted again, laughter in his voice. Harleen felt on the verge of tears. 

“No! I didn't say that, and I wasn't trying to say that. You’re deluded if you think you matter to me at all."

“Deluded, _me_? I can’t believe you’d say something like that.” He gave her an ironic smile, his green eyes glittering mischievously. “But really, Doctor Quinzel, all I wanted to say was that I was touched by the gesture.”

She scoffed. “I’m sure.”

“I’m not joking.” For once, he didn’t sound like he was. “Not every shrink in this joint would go to those lengths for folks like us. Or they’d come to gloat.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he had never even considered anything else to be a possibility. Harleen finally gathered the mental stamina to look at him. 

“There’s a difference between _not_ abusing the patients and caring about them.” she said quietly. “I would never gloat. That’s cruel.”

“I know you wouldn’t. You’re better than them.” He sounded serious, and Harleen looked up in surprise. Just as she thought she glimpsed something other than the ever-present laughter in his eyes, it was gone. 

_That’s what I’m trying to see._

_Who you are underneath this mask._

“What I want to start with for today,” she began again, “is listening to your opinion on some things. I think it might help me get a better understanding of how your mind works, and it’ll help _us_ work together better.” He nodded, looking fully absorbed in what she was saying. “So I have a list of things here, and I want to know what you think about them.”

“If you want to work together,” he spoke up, meeting her gaze with his emerald eyes, “I think it’s only fair if you say what _your_ opinion is, too.”

Harleen bit down on her lip, looking away. She’d suspected he would say something like that, and even though she prepared herself for it, it was still frightening to think of refusing. She knew _he_ was the patient and _she_ was the therapist…she was the one in charge. But somehow, when they sat in that room together and she saw the smile that constantly flickered in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, she didn’t feel in charge. 

Still, she had to stand her ground if she wanted to make any sort of progress. 

“I’d like to focus just on you today,” she began, willing herself to keep her hands still and not toy with the pencil in front of her…he would see how nervous she was. “and maybe some other time we can try that.”

She’d expected him to argue, maybe try and cajole her into doing what he wanted, but he didn’t. “Okay.”

“Good. So. The first question I have…” She flipped through her folder until she came to the paper she was looking for. “I was wondering, what are your thoughts on Gotham’s elite? You know, the rich p…”

“I know what elite means." he interrupted, and Harleen sat back in her seat, her mouth twisting to the side.

“Oh. Well, I’d like to hear your thoughts on them.”

“Any particular one you’re thinking of, or just the general population of the rich?” he smiled. Harleen tucked her hair behind her ear.

“In general. Just…what your thoughts are on them, you know?”

“To be honest with you, I couldn’t care less. Rich or poor, honest or cheat, billionaire or gang lord, they’re all the same to me. I don’t see why anyone even bothers to classify them as any better than everyone else. Everyone’s the same, and they’ll all end up dead someday anyway. It’s not like being rich gives you anything special.”

“So you don’t see a difference between any sort of people.” she clarified, and he shrugged.

“I don’t see why anyone makes such a big fuss about them, that’s all.”

“So why were you planning on destroying Bruce Wayne’s home the other night?”

“Oh, because I felt like it. I heard he was throwing a party and I thought, hey, why not pay old Brucie boy a visit? He _always_ loves my party tricks.”

“Always? You mean you’ve done that before?”

He gave her a long look, almost guarded, and then laughed. There was something shining in his eyes, like he was hiding a secret from her. “Like I said, he and I have crossed paths once or twice. That’s not the point.”

“But that’s why you tried to kill him? Just because you felt like it?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Doctor Quinzel. I never said I wanted to kill him. I just wanted to blow up his house. I was gonna make sure he was safely out by the time the manor was going up in flames.”

“Then why destroy it? I thought you just wanted to kill people.”

He looked appalled. “How boring. No, I like to think I have a _range_ of skills, doc, and I don’t like to limit myself. You have to understand, it’s not about the killing. None of it is.”

She frowned. “Okay, then what’s it about?”

“The art. The beauty of chaos. The way you can feel society start to tremble as it crumbles apart. That’s what I want. That’s what this is about.” He spoke softly, like he was telling a bedtime story to a child, but the words didn’t lose any of their intensity. Harleen drew her shoulders up uncomfortably.

“So why do you kill people, then?”

He examined the metal table that sat between them casually. “Oh, because they get in my way. Because I don’t want them around. I don’t know.”

“So you’re saying you don’t kill for a reason. You don’t have a motive like revenge.” 

He nodded sharply, locking eyes with her. “Exactly, Doctor Quinzel. You catch on fast.”

Harleen dragged her gaze away. “So you’re saying the reason…the only reason….that you wanted to destroy Bruce Wayne’s house was just a random whim?” He nodded. “Did you know I was at the house that night?"

Patient 2540 tilted his head, raising his eyebrows. “Of course I did.”

Harleen sat back, unable to repress a shudder. Everything seemed to fade out of focus, like all her senses were suddenly cut off. She felt horribly cold, and wondered if there was any color left in her face. When she’d asked the question, she hadn’t been expecting him to have admitted _that_ answer…how had he known? 

_Why_ had he known? 

Was he somehow watching her, even when she wasn’t here? Did he know about her, about her life, about _Bruce?_ Did he know where she lived, where she went, what her life had been like before all this? Did he know? If he did, why did he care? 

How had he known?

She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat had gone dry and the words stuttered and died on her lips. The patient was watching her calmly, waiting for her to say something. He looked completely passive, as if he was totally unaware of how nerve-wracking that admission had been. Harleen’s head was spinning, and she wanted so badly to run out of the room and never come back, but she couldn’t. She had to hold on. This was her chance…this was her only opportunity. She couldn’t back down from this. No matter what happened.

_You have to do this._

“I…” She cleared her throat and tried again, hoping the tremble in her voice wouldn’t give her away. “How did you know I would be there?”

He smiled almost patronizingly at her, and somehow that was more terrifying than any sort of wild laughter or sly smirk she’d been expecting. He reminded her of a snake, poised to strike, while she was the prey cowering helplessly in the corner. 

_No escape._

“You said you were Bruce’s friend. And he invites all his friends to his parties. Gives him better cred with his other upper-crust buddies. You’re just a warm body fill up the house, Doctor Quinzel. An extra in the background of a play. And when the news reporters flash their cameras at him, Brucie knows there’ll always be a nice full crowd behind him to display on the headlines the next day. That’s how they operate, doc. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

His words had almost made Harleen forget her overwhelming fear that, only moments before, had been threatening to engulf her entire mind and leave her floundering helplessly. She clenched her fists angrily, feeling the color flood back to her cheeks.

“It’s not like that. Bruce didn’t ask me to come just to make him look better. I mean, he even gave me money for a dress. He _cares,_ not like you'd ever know anything about that."

The patient smiled slowly, something faraway and amused gleaming in his expression. “Of course, _I_ know nothing of Bruce Wayne’s attention.” he murmured. “I’m sure he has _much_ better things to worry about.”

“I meant…”

“Oh, I know. It just struck me as…funny.” He still spoke softly, but there was an edge of laughter in his voice now. Harleen shivered again.

“Look, I don’t think this is what we need to be talking about. I think we should move on to the next question.” She flipped the page over, her eyes flitting over the list of options. It needed to be something safe, something that had nothing to do with her. Otherwise he would turn the tables on her again, trick her into revealing something more about herself, until _he_ was the one analyzing _her._ That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. It was the other way around, and Harleen wasn’t going to fall into his trap anymore.

_You’re in charge, Harls. Just remember that._

“I know we’ve discussed this before, but what do you think of Batman?” That was neutral territory…she wasn’t connected with the vigilante in any way, and there was nothing the patient could do to force her into talking about herself. 

She looked up to see he was still smiling, but with a deeper sort of intensity behind his eyes. “I don’t suppose it’s any use in asking what _you_ think?”

“I already said, we’re not talking about my opinion right now.”

“Okay, okay, I was just wondering.” He licked his lips, chewing off flecks of dried blood. Harleen wondered if they even treated the patients after they were returned to Arkham…if Patient 2540 was any indication, they didn’t.

“Ask anyone in Gotham City, we’re the greatest power couple you’ll ever see.” he grinned. His tone had changed, become more playful, almost innocent sounding. But there was still that dark edge that persisted, and Harleen watched him warily. There was something about him, that strange energy she had sensed the first day she’d met him, that warned her to be careful. As if he would suddenly disentangle himself from the straightjacket and murder her on the spot.

“Course, he doesn’t see it that way.” the patient continued, unaware or not caring about Harleen’s nervousness. “Says I’m a menace to the city, that I deserve everything I got coming to me, blah blah blah.”

“But you have to admit you _are_ a menace to the city.” Harleen interrupted carefully.

“Oh, but I’m so much more. I’m the only one who’s got the guts to _live_ around here, doc. I do what I want, and that's what scares them. They're scared of freedom, and so's Bats. He just wants to get in the way of my fun, but hey, I’m not complaining. Gives me something to do. And someday, he'll realize the truth."

“Which is?”

His grin stretched across his bruised face, and Harleen reflexively moved her chair back. “That he’s the biggest joke of all.”

“That’s interesting, coming from someone who dresses like a clown.”

“And _he_ dresses like a _bat._ We’re both raging lunatics, doc, only I _realize_ it. He doesn’t get it, which makes him a bigger fool than I’ll ever be. But when he does…” The patient shivered in anticipation, his eyes sparkling like he had been given a Christmas gift, “…well, that’s a day I’ve waited a long time for.”

“You think he’s better off insane?” she asked. “I mean, our definition of insane, at least? I know you don’t think insanity exists, but you get what I mean. You think things would be better if Batman suddenly went crazy.”

“He’s already crazy.” he said confidently, and Harleen could see he really believed it. “Everyone is. They’re just waiting for the last little push off the edge, and then they can enjoy the ride down. It really isn’t so bad once you let yourself go.” He lifted his gaze to her again, and Harleen saw a spark glowing in his acid green eyes. “You should try it sometime.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there's not a lot happening plot-wise yet, which is because i'm still working out some of those details, but there should be a bit more action happening soon! 
> 
> (also the thing the Joker says about him and Batman being Gotham's power couple is a reference to something he says in the comic "White Knight" which is amazing and i recommend it to everyone)
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments! thanks for reading! :)


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Harleen struggled up the narrow staircase of the apartment building, trying to balance the three overflowing grocery bags in her arms. Craning her neck to see of the tops of the produce sticking out, she shuffled down the hallway and leaned against the wall, trying to reach the key in her pocket and not let everything she was holding come crashing down. Her face was red with exertion and her hands were sweating. Blonde strands of hair hung over her face, and she tossed them back irately.

_That’s what you get for living in the city. Gotta carry all this junk three whole blocks with no one to help you._

“Three blocks.” she echoed herself aloud, kicking the wall to feel better. She could feel the key in her pocket, but it was stubbornly insisting on being just out of reach. Harleen was approaching the stage of irritation where she wanted to throw all the food on the ground and smash the door in with a single blow (as if her five-foot-two frame could do anything more than leave a faint dent), when she heard a voice on the other side of the bags.

“Hey, do you want some help?”

Straining to see over the pile of groceries, Harleen caught a glimpse of another girl, one with long red hair and a green pullover. She was staring at the blonde like she was crazy, and Harleen felt her face grow even more red. _Oh great, now there’s a witness to my struggles._

Still, she’d been offered help. It would be rude to say no, especially when she was so very clearly not getting anywhere on her own. “Yeah, I need to get my keys. Can you hold this?” She held out the stuffed paper bags to the redhead, who took them and watched as Harleen scrambled for her key, jammed it in the door, and swung it open with a relieved sigh. “Thanks. And sorry about that. I didn’t mean to just throw all that at you.”

The redhead scoffed. “Don’t sweat it. Where do you want me to put these?”

Harleen reached her arms out. “Oh, no, I’ll take them. You’ve already helped me out.”

“It’s fine. I’m holding them now anyway. Where should I put them?”

With a shrug, Harleen pointed to the tiny apartment kitchen. “Just on the floor there.” She followed the stranger in, the door swinging shut behind them.“Sorry it’s such a mess in here. I…”

“Stop apologizing. And it’s not a mess.” The girl straightened up, brushing her hands on her sweater. “You should see _my_ place.”

Harleen looked up at her. “You live here too?”

“Just moved in yesterday.” She jerked a thumb at the adjoining wall. “Next door to you.”

“Oh! We can be friends!” As soon as she spoke, Harleen’s eyes grew wide and she clamped her mouth shut in embarrassment. _Oh, so you’re a three-year-old now? Honestly, Harls, what's the matter with you? She's gonna think you're an idiot._

The redhead smirked. “Don’t have many friends around here, do you, blondie?”

“I…” Harleen crossed her arms, trying to piece her dignity back together. “Sorry, I was just…”

“If you apologize at me one more time, I’m going to throw all your groceries out the window.”

She ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “Sor…I mean, okay, I won’t. You’re right, I don’t…I don’t have many friends.” Boy, that was a stretch to say. Her only friend around here was Bruce, and she had been avoiding him for the past month after he’d called her that one late night. She’d kept her head down and gone to and from her job every Tuesday, spending the rest of her time sitting around in her apartment and bored out of her mind, or in a corner seat in the Ace of Hearts club, drinking soda and feeling sorry for herself. It wasn’t that the sessions with her patient weren’t going well…she liked to think he was warming up to her, maybe even ready to talk about the secrets he kept from everyone else…but she was a little resentful that it was because of him that she couldn’t talk to Bruce without feeling like she would get a lecture every other word. 

“How long have you lived here?” the redhead, unaware of Harleen’s thoughts, asked. 

“Um, about three months. I started working out here a few weeks ago.”

“Where do you work?”

“Arkham Asylum.”

The redhead raised an eyebrow, inspecting one of the houseplants Harleen kept in the kitchen window. “Arkham, huh? Why would you do that to yourself?”

She sighed in exasperation, her momentary hopes of making a friend melting away into annoyance. “I’m a psychiatrist. So _I_ like it there.”

“You do you, I guess.” The other shook her head, then extended a hand to Harleen, who was standing in the other end of the kitchen. “I’m Pamela, by the way. Pamela Isley.”

“Oh!” She took the offered hand eagerly, glad for a change of subject. “I’m Harleen.”

“What sort of name is that?”

“I dunno. My friends call me H…” She hesitated. The last person to call her by _that_ name had been her patient, and she remembered the way he’d looked at her, like he was laughing at some secret joke only he knew about. Something superstitious in her didn’t want to say the name aloud, as if it would somehow conjure him up in front of her or something. “Harls.” _That’s sort of true, at least. Some of them do._

Or they used to, back when she’d actually had more than one friend. She tried to distract herself. "Do people call you Pam?"

“Nope.” Pamela shook her head. “But you can, if you want.”

“Only if you’re okay with that.” Harleen hesitated, and Pamela rolled her eyes.

“Look, I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you to.” She glanced at Harleen and her expression softened the slightest amount, although she didn’t smile. She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms as Harleen began unpacking the groceries. “So what do you do at Arkham?”

“Therapy sessions.” Harleen replied guardedly. “I go there weekly to meet with the patient face-to-face.”

“Only once a week?” Pamela picked up the mint plant Harleen had been trying to grow and surveyed it with a critical eye. “Do you have a side job?”

“No, it pays well. And I spend a lot of time on research and stuff. Prepping for the next session, y’know?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. You need to water this more.”

Harleen glanced up, then at the plant in the other’s hand. “Oh. I was trying to grow it, but I’m not great with plants, and…”

“Mint’s the easiest thing to grow.” Pamela commented, setting the pot back down on the counter. Harleen shrugged.

“I don’t have a green thumb. I just thought they looked nice in the window.”

“I can take care of it for you. Send it back once it’s perked up a bit.”

“Could you?” Harleen echoed in surprise, and Pamela nodded. “Wow, that’s really nice of you.”

“It’s not really. I like plants.”

“Well, if you’re doing that for me, then I should do something nice for you. Do you want help unpacking in your apartment?” It was a lame excuse to find someone to hang out with, and Harleen knew it, but at this point she was lonely enough to the point of desperation. And besides, it would get her mind off of…well, everything.

Pamela chuckled, running a finger lightly over the wilting mint leaves. “Are you looking for someone to keep you company?”

“I…”

“Sure, you can come over. I don’t want you touching my stuff, but it’d be nice to have someone to talk to. But you have to stay for dinner.”

Harleen’s eyes lit up, and she bounced to her feet, resisting the urge to hug the redhead lounging against her kitchen counter. “I’d love to!”

 

\+ + + + + + + 

 

“So you work for the botany lab at Gotham University?” Harleen glanced over her shoulder as she set the pile of dishes in the sink. Pamela looked up from the box of houseplants she was unpacking. Harleen had never seen so many plants in such a small space, and she wondered how Pamela had the time to take care of them all.

“Yep. Just got hired there last week. I know one of the professors there.”

“That’s cool.” Harleen wasn’t really listening anymore. She was watching the crime report that was flashing across the television on the wall. Pamela, absorbed in unpacking, wasn’t listening to the reporter, but Harleen noticed footage of Arkham inmates cross the corner of the screen. “Can you turn up the TV?”

Pamela passed her the remote absently. “What is it?”

“Just something about Arkham. I wanted to see in case it involves…” She broke off, her throat feeling like it was closing shut as a picture of the Joker (n _o, Patient 2540)_ came onto the screen. The reporter continued speaking in a monotone, bored voice.

“We have heard from the staff at Arkham, as well as the presiding head of the secure unit ward, Joan Leland, that a new, rigorous rehabilitation program will be put in place for the inmates. Word had not yet reached the public about what this program will entail, and Arkham seems to be intent on keeping details under wraps.”

Harleen frowned, tapping the remote against the back of Pamela’s couch (green, of course.) “I haven’t heard of a new program.”

“What’s that?”

“The reporter said…”

“Yeah, I heard that part. You said you haven’t heard of it?”

“Nothing. And my patient’s in that ward.” Unease started to grow in her, and she glanced at Pamela helplessly. “No one’s said anything to me.”

“I mean, maybe they’re going to tell you next time you go into work. Or they forgot.” Pamela smoothed out the vine of one of the plants she was holding. “I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

“But I’m working with one of those patients! If they’re staring a new program, they should have told me!”

Pamela shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know how all that works.”

Harleen threw the remote down on the couch, her hands balling into fists. “Well, I’m going to call them up right now and ask about it. They can’t just keep changing things without telling me. And I don’t even know if the program will work for my patient. They should have asked me that…he’s _my_ responsibility, not theirs.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty attached to this guy.” Pamela noted, and Harleen’s shoulders stiffened. She shot an uneasy look at her new friend, which went unnoticed.

“N-no…” _Does it really always come across like that? Jeez, all I’m trying to do is create some sort of connection so we can actually get somewhere. Why does everyone have to jump to conclusions all the time?_ “It’s not that. I’m just working very hard to make progress, and they’re going to ruin it.”

“So call them. Tell them what you just said. They should listen to you.”

“Yeah, they _should.”_ Harleen muttered, crossing her arms. “But they probably won’t. No one ever listens to me.”

“Well, they’re definitely not if you don’t talk to them.” Pamela pointed out, and Harleen sighed, dragging her hand along the back of the couch.

“You’re right. Okay, I’ll go call them. Thanks for dinner.”

“See you around, Harls.” Pamela glanced back at her. “Close the door behind you.”

Harleen made her way back to her own apartment and picked up the phone, reluctantly dialing Leland’s number. She hated to cause even more conflict between her and older psychiatrist, especially if it meant her job would be on the line. But she couldn’t shake the news report that echoed in her head…they didn’t have any right to go changing up her plans without her knowing. And what sort of program were they adding anyway? Given Arkham’s track record for those things, there was no guarantee it would be something completely legal, or even something that could actually help the patients. 

Before another thought could cross her mind, the line on the other end picked up and Leland’s voice came through. “Yes?”

“Hi, it’s me.” She paused for a moment, unsure. Did Leland have her number? Or was she not important enough for that? She decided to clarify, just in case. Better safe than sorry. “Harleen Quinzel.”

“What are you calling about this late, Harleen?” The psychiatrist’s voice was faintly annoyed, and Harleen realized, with a shot of guilt, that it was past ten o’clock at night. _Oh jeez._

“Wow, I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize…” She shook her head, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I just had a question…”

“About the new program?” Leland cut her off, and Harleen swallowed. Was she really that predictable?

“Uh, yeah…I mean, yes, about the program. I saw a news report about it on TV just now…”

“We tried to keep them from airing that, but there’s only so much we can do. It wasn’t supposed to be a public announcement, though.” Leland sounded irritated, and Harleen felt even worse about interrupting her evening.

_No, don’t. This is your job. You deserve to know what’s going on._

“Why don’t you want it going public?” There was silence on the other line and she frowned. “What exactly is this new program?”

“We have a new psychiatrist joining our staff next week, a very prestigious individual who has made quite the living off his his experimental therapy methods. Professor Hugo Strange is his name, and he’s in charge of the program we’re going to start using with the patients.”

Harleen sat down on her couch, drawing her legs up underneath her. “Experimental therapy? What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” _And what sort of name is Hugo Strange? Doesn’t sound like the sort of guy you want in charge of a psych ward._

“Professor Strange is known for his work in aversion therapy…his new and innovative methods have been largely successful in many of his patients. Plenty of former inmates have been rehabilitated after being exposed to his practices.” Leland sounded like she was choosing her words carefully, like a lawyer standing before a judge in a courtroom. Harleen’s eyes narrowed.

“Aversion therapy? isn’t that a little outdated? And unethical?”

Leland’s voice was cold. “Drastic measures have to be taken sometimes in regard to these people, Harleen. You know that, you’ve seen it firsthand.”

“But they’re still _people._ ” she shot back. “And they don’t always realize that their actions are wrong.”

“They’d like you to think that.” the psychiatrist said calmly. “And I’m sure there is some merit to that belief, but that doesn’t change the fact that our therapy methods are mostly ineffective, and Professor Strange is offering a very good deal to the asylum for his work.”

“So it’s about the money?” Harleen’s face flushed with indignation. “That’s why you’re resorting to this? There’s a _reason_ aversion therapy isn’t allowed in a lot of places anymore. And you’re just going to subject these people to it because some hotshot is giving you a discount so he can use them as experiments?”

“Harleen.” Leland’s voice was sharp, and Harleen shrank away from the receiver guiltily, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. _What have you done? That’s your superior, and you just yelled at her! Told her she was wrong! Are you trying to get fired?_

Still, another part of her insisted, _Someone’s got to say something. If no one else will._

“Sorry.” she mumbled, her eyes downcast. “I just…I wish someone had told be about it before they made any decisions."

"I think you’re overstating your importance to the asylum, Harleen.” Leland’s words were like a jab in the heart, and Harleen bit her lip, holding back anything else she wanted to say. “You need to learn to work around whatever sort of treatments we give the patients.”

“But if no one _tells_ me beforehand…” she protested uncertainly, her self-esteem dissolving by the second, “How am I supposed to do an effective job?”  
Leland sighed, and there was a long pause between them. “Harleen, we’ve been over this before. I understand your enthusiasm for…helping…these patients, but some of them are not necessarily in Arkham to be rehabilitated. You knew that going into this, that you might be providing therapy, but there was never any expectation for change.”

Harleen frowned. “You’re talking about my patient.” It wasn’t a question…she knew that was the point of Leland’s comment. 

“Yes. I am. Patient 2540 has proven time and time again to be beyond help, beyond treatment. So…”

“Why are you letting this new psychiatrist use _his_ methods, then?” Harleen cut in quickly. “If my patient is such a hopeless case like you say, then what’s the point of trying out new treatment on him?”

Leland was quiet, and Harleen could hear her exhale slowly on the other end of the phone. “Harleen, I want you to listen to what I’m going to tell you as a professional would, and not from an emotional place, okay? I understand that you empathize with your patient to a certain degree, and…”

“Well, I…”

“And you believe that no one is beyond help, but you do not have the experience with this particular case to be making those sort of judgement calls, and you do not have a complete grasp on the enormity of the crimes he has committed.”

“Oh, so just because I have _hope_ in making someone’s life better means I’m inexperienced and delusional? It’s not like I’m condoning his actions. I’m just seeing the truth that everyone else seems to ignore.”

“And what is that?” Leland’s voice was calm, but clearly displeased. Harleen hesitated, not wanting to anger her employer further, but equally unwilling to drop the matter at hand. After all, some things couldn’t be put aside.

“That no one has ever tried to give him a chance.” she said slowly. “No one has even had the faith that he could change. That someone could figure out the depths of his mind and put a stop to everything he does, all the horrible crimes he commits. No one has ever really wanted to help him, they’ve just done it with a sense of duty. Just another job. I’m not like that. I don't want to give up on him. I want to…” _Want to what? Be his friend? No, don’t say that. It’ll come off all wrong. I just...I just want..._

“I want someone to care.” she finished quietly, wishing she could say more but not knowing what that would be. On the other line, Leland was silent for a moment before she replied.

“And that’s exactly why I was afraid to give you this job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! :)


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a hot minute since I updated this...I had writer's block for this particular fic for a while but the next chapter's up now and I'll (hopefully) be updating on a semi-weekly basis from now on. :)

**Chapter Thirteen**

 

“How are you feeling?” Harleen asked cautiously, looking intently at the patient on the other side of the table. He didn’t smile at her as he usually did, only shrugged as much as the straightjacket would allow him. She tried to smile instead, but it was forced and wooden, and the look in her eyes betrayed her worry, no matter how she tried to hide it.

“Well, I want you to know that I tried very hard to tell Dr. Leland to not let the patients go through this new…therapy that scientist is working on.” she said quietly. “I don’t think it’s right for patients to be used as experiments, no matter what crimes they’ve committed or even if they’re considered _incurable._ ”

“Has there ever really been a patient who’s been cured?” he asked suddenly, and Harleen looked back up, trying to ignore the burn marks on his temples from Dr. Strange’s “advanced electroshock therapy” as he called it. (“There are still a few issues to work out as far as the method goes,” he had explained to Harleen when she had met him the day before…she’d hated him at first sight, but hadn’t had the backbone to defy anything he said, no matter how revolted she was by it. “But what better way to resolve those issues than by a little experimentation?”)

_He asked you a question._

“What do you mean?” she asked carefully, not breaking eye contact. Even beneath the haze of pain that clouded his bright green eyes— _What sort of therapy is this if it leaves the patient worse off than before?_ she thought indignantly—there was that constantly smoldering intensity she had grown to associate with him alone. There was a defiance, too, that Harleen couldn’t help but admire, despite her better judgement. _He won’t let them break him._

“What I mean is, can you really cure insanity?” He raised an eyebrow at her, his voice more hoarse than usual, but not lacking in its distinct lilt and soft timbre. Harleen began to realize she _liked_ that voice…liked how confident it was, without even trying to be, liked how it reminded her of a ticking time bomb: quiet, unthreatening even, at first, but deadly if it wanted to be. She shook her head at herself.

_Seriously, what’s wrong with you?_

“It depends what you mean by curing insanity.” she said slowly. “I believe a patient can learn to cope with their issues, even if they can’t be eradicated from their being altogether. And they can live a normal life despite those issues.”

“A normal life?” he echoed, staring at her still unsmilingly. “Who would want that?”

“Some people would.”

“Some people have no imagination.”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you want a normal life?” she countered, and he almost smiled then, she saw the faintest quirk at the edges of his mouth, but that was all, and his expression became just as serious as before. 

“What’s so great about it? Seems ridiculously tedious to me. I prefer a little variation to my days.”

“By variation you mean crime and acts of terrorism?” she asked rebukingly, and he sighed.

“Doctor Quinzel, you see things too narrowly. You cannot constrain yourself to such a tiny scope of the world if you really wish to _live_ in it.” He looked at her seriously, and she felt a sudden, involuntary pang in her chest.

_Smile, just please smile._

She caught herself in the next moment, her face flushing in confusion and guilt. She shouldn’t be wishing for that…not when it was an expression synonymous to the chaos and destruction he advocated. Because his smile was a signal for danger, a threat. 

_You can’t think that anymore._ she told herself sternly. _You can never think that. You aren’t trying to encourage his behavior, you’re trying to do the opposite. Don’t screw this up for yourself._

“I don’t see anything wrong with being normal.” she said calmly, hoping the turmoil in her mind wasn’t showing on her face. “And I’m not quite sure I’d prefer murdering people to monotony.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently, and the sudden sharp desire to see him smile rose up again before she could help herself. _You need to stop. Focus. Don’t let anything get in the way of your job._

“Categorizing what I enjoy into the realm of murder alone isn’t exactly accurate, Doctor Quinzel.” the patient was saying. “Nor does it adequately represent the entirety of my abilities. If I was merely a murderer, I would have been sent to Blackgate, or perhaps even visited the old electric chair quite some time ago. Really, the reason I’ve been spared is by what you call insanity.” He tilted his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? They all consider me to be the worst of the worst, yet what can they do about it? If I am truly insane, as the books dictate, then I don’t understand the gravity of my crimes. I am not _capable_ of comprehending my own actions.” There was a bitter edge to his tone now, a dangerous glint in his eye she hadn’t yet seen. It was the same energy she’d likened to a caged animal before, but this was darker, more enraged. 

A caged animal, still, but one that had been beaten and tormented and was fixated on destroying his captors.

Harleen was suddenly very grateful that she had mentioned her dislike for Hugo Strange’s methods at the beginning of the session.

“But you _are_ aware.” she said hesitantly, and his gaze snapped to her intently. “You know what you’re doing.”

And in that moment, she knew it was true.

Up till that point, she had wavered in her belief on whether the patient really had the cognizance to recognize his own depravity and the consequences of his actions. She had told herself that no human being could really derive that much satisfaction and even joy out of causing widespread pain and destruction, that even the most heinous of criminals couldn’t possibly grasp the enormity of it all. But looking into Patient 2540’s eyes, seeing the light that constantly burned behind them with unwavering confidence, she realized that he _did_ know.

And what’s more, he _liked_ it.

This wasn’t an life born from some aspect of his murky past, a half-witted revenge plot against the city or misplaced sense of vengeance. It wasn’t something she could learn more deeply about by analyzing who he was and where he came from before he became the criminal the entire city lived in fear of. She wouldn’t ever learn more deeply about his motives, because there was nothing to learn.

There _was_ no motive.

_He just does all this because…_

_Because he wants to._

“Of course I’m aware.” he replied, unaware of the dawning realization that was processing itself in Harleen’s mind. “That’s why you can’t cure me of insanity. I’ve told you before, this isn’t some sickness of the mind or some such stupid story those doctors make up. But they have to believe it is, because they can’t stand to _not_ shove me in their little labeled box and call me mad. You know why?”

Harleen shook her head, her thoughts racing to catch up with his words. “Why?”

“Because they don’t want to see what’s right in front of their noses.” he said with absolute certainty. “The truth that’s staring them in the face, threatening to surface if they ever _don’t_ deem me to be a lunatic.”

“And what is that truth?” she asked hesitantly, wondering when the conversation had been steered in the direction he’d wanted it to. But didn’t it always go like that? No matter what sort of things she tried to tell him, it always ended up like this. He always got what he wanted, in the end.

“That I’m _right.”_ His voice dropped even softer and his eyes glittered as he leaned toward her in the chair. “I’ve always been right, if they would simply listen to me. Don’t you see the joke of it all?”

“I don’t know if I do.” 

“It’s _all_ a joke, and their reluctance is the punchline. They think they’re locking _me_ away, when it’s really _them_ stuck in their own little boxes, refusing to see how much more they could all be if they only let it all go. Because they _could_ be more. If they would just let themselves.”

“You’re saying that the only way to truly live is to not _try_ to follow the rules?”

“You catch on remarkably quick, Doctor Quinzel.” He looked at her admiringly. “You know, that’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to listen. You aren’t scared when reality looks you in the face. I think it’s because somewhere, in some part of your mind, hidden away, you want to believe me.”

Harleen stiffened. “I listen to you because that’s my job. I’m your therapist. It doesn’t mean I agree with you.”

“Do you disagree?” he asked calmly, and Harleen crossed her arms.

“Well, I don’t exactly think we should abolish all the rules of society and run wild without any sort of restrictions.”

“Why not?”

“Because…because that’s not how it works.” she replied, flustered that she couldn’t come up with a stronger answer. “We can’t live like that.”

_“I_ do.” 

She paused. “Look, people aren’t made to function without at least some rules.”

“And who says that?” he countered smoothly. “Who deemed themselves to be so important that they decided humanity could only exist one way, and anyone who didn’t follow those _rules_ should be locked up in an insane asylum?”

“ _That’s_ because you kill people.” she said sternly.

“So why doesn’t someone kill me? Why not put an end to it with a bullet in my brain, hmm?”

“You’re talking about the Batman?” she asked slowly, and he nodded. Harleen linked her fingers together. “Batman doesn’t kill. I haven’t lived in Gotham very long, but even I know that.”

“Bingo.” His eyes lit up, and he became more animated for the first time that day. “Because of his _code._ His rules. You do realize how many people he could save if he dropped me off a roof, don’t you?”

Harleen blinked, adjusting her glasses. “But that would make him a criminal.”

“Who also happened to be working for the greater good and saving the lives of innocents.”

“I thought you didn’t care about the lives of innocents.”

“I don’t. I’m just making a point.”

She sighed. “Look, let’s go back to your original question on whether or not someone can be cured of insanity.”

“That wasn’t my original question. I asked if _you_ thought someone could be cured.”

“Okay. And I said—"

“Normal life. Normal, boring, drab, monotonous, mundane…”

“Yeah, I get it. But here’s the thing. The world isn’t going to change just because you want it to. So you can’t continue doing this with the hope that you’re going to miraculously convert everyone to your way of thinking. It’s not going to change.”

“So _I_ should change, then?” he finished for her, and Harleen shrugged.

“I mean, it’s really the only way.”

“I wonder.” he said thoughtfully, surveying her with renewed intensity. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course I do. Why do you always question my own belief in the things I say?”

“How much,” he asked, his voice still quiet, despite the way he stared at her as though his eyes would burn holes in her, “how much did _you_ have to change for the world?”

Harleen stared back. “We all change. None of us can really be who we want to be if we’re being realistic.”

“I’m who I want to be.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” He leaned back, his eyes never leaving her face. “Who are you, really, Doctor Quinzel, underneath that mask you wear? Better yet, who do you wish you could have become? I know it’s certainly not _this.”_

“Is that an insult?” she asked, more heatedly than she intended.

“It’s an observation.”

“I don’t mind being here.” She hoped it sounded convincing. It _was_ true; she’d learned to appreciate her work, even if the rest was an act. And she was intrigued with her patient’s case…although at the moment she was beginning to wish she was somewhere else.

“Yes, but it’s not what you wanted.” he said with complete conviction. Harleen wondered how he could be so sure of himself. He had no proof of anything, yet here he was saying with absolute confidence that she was discontented with her own life.

_You don’t even know me._ she thought with more than a hint of resentment. 

“What I wanted doesn’t matter. This is what I do now. It’s what I had to do.” 

“Oh, what you _had_ to do.” he echoed. “I see. Your own aspirations weren’t good enough for anyone else, were they? You could be _so much better,_ don’t go wasting your life, be sure to make everyone proud. That's what they told you, wasn’t it? That’s what they said, over and over again, until you believed them.”

Harleen stared blankly at him, frozen. She wanted to speak, to say that it wasn’t right, that he had no business making that kind of assumption about her…but she couldn’t.

Because he _was_ right.

_How?_

_How did he know?_

“It doesn’t matter how I ended up here.” she said stonily, trying to hide the emotions that played across her face, betraying her every thought. _Why did he have to say that?_ She hated thinking about it, about how she had been all but forced into following someone else’s dreams, dogged and pestered into becoming successful, because there was no other option. She couldn’t do anything else, because then she would be a disappointment to everyone she knew, and that _couldn’t_ happen. 

She had pressed on, losing pieces of who she had been at each turn. Becoming who _they_ had wanted her to be, everyone who had told her she could be so much more, everyone who watched her every move, waiting for her to slip up so they could shake their heads and say what a pity it was that Harleen Quinzel was the failure they’d all secretly known she would be.

And now she was here, sitting in a decrepit, outdated asylum where scientists experimented on the patients and the security hadn’t been updated in fifty years, drowning in self-doubt and uncertainty about herself and her future and her life as the successful woman everyone had wanted. Because it wasn’t who she had wanted to be…she didn’t even _know_ what she had wanted.

_You wanted the freedom. The freedom of not having to be perfect. Not being watched and scrutinized all the time until you mess up and make a fool of yourself. You just wanted to be happy, to smile once in a while and maybe laugh if you wanted without having to feel like someone was breathing down your neck._

_That was what you wanted._

_What you still want._

“It doesn’t matter.” she repeated, squaring her shoulders almost desperately. “Who I am now is who I will always be, and there’s no changing that.”

“You could.” he offered, and she shook her head.

“No. No, I’m not going to listen to your speeches on why we don’t need to follow the rules and how we can be free if only we stop caring…you aren't going to convince me, and I don't want to hear it. Besides, there are other things I want to talk about.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” her tone softened, “I want to know what's going on with this Dr. Hugo Strange. I’ve heard him speak about his apparent _therapy_ he’s working on, but…” She trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

“Exactly why do you care?” he inquired curiously, his mouth drawn into a thin, unsmiling line. Harleen shifted in her chair.

“I don’t think he should be abusing the patients because he considers them disposable. That’s unethical and shouldn’t be condoned by the asylum.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Will you…will you be all right?” she asked hesitantly, hating how unsure she sounded, as if _she_ was the one in the patient’s chair and he was supposed to reassure her. She cleared her throat and tried a different tactic. “What I mean is, I’m worried about the patients in general. They shouldn’t…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out soon enough.” he interrupted, and she looked up.

“What?”  
He glanced at her impatiently. “Out of here. Arkham. And this time, Bats isn’t gonna find me.” 

“You’re planning on escaping?” Without thinking, she glanced at the security camera in the corner uneasily. _Is anyone else hearing this? Why is he telling me?_

“Well, I’m not planning on sitting around this dump waiting for that so-called doctor to fry my brain like rotisserie chicken.” 

“How exactly are you going to avoid Batman?” she asked cautiously. The patient scoffed.

“He only catches me when I _want_ to be caught. The thrill of the chase, you know? And I can’t beat him every time, else he’ll get tired of that. But if I don’t want Bats to find me,” he stared at her with utter conviction in his eyes, “he won’t find me.”

“You know I can’t condone you escaping.” she said reluctantly, twisting her hands together. _He can’t escape, he’ll kill more people…but what happens if he stays locked up here? Strange could kill him._

_Why does this have to be so complicated?_

“No, you can’t. You could walk out the door right now and tell Leland herself what I just told you.” He _did_ smile then, and Harleen tried to ignore the way her heart stuttered in her chest with some unidentifiable emotion. In the span of half a second, his demeanor switched from the nameless Patient 2540 to the greatest criminal mind in Gotham, his green eyes sparkling with humor just like Harleen knew so well. _You’d better watch yourself._ “You could let those circus goons that call themselves guards outside the door know, or Strange himself. But,” he turned his smile to her, the smile of a predator closing in on its prey, and Harleen stifled the shiver that brushed against her spine in cold tendrils, “I don’t think you will.”


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispering* uhh hi I'm back
> 
> I'm SO sorry it's taken me so long to update (I checked last time I added a chapter and all I can say is YIKES). I've had writer's block really bad on this fic for a while, and I've rewritten this chapter over and over again cause it just wasn't working out the way I wanted it to, but it's finally here! Hope you like it after the insufferable wait I've put anyone who's interested in this through...if you've stuck around to still sorta care about this story, then enjoy the chapter!

**Chapter Fourteen**

 

Harleen stared at the television as if in a trance, unable to tear her eyes away in case she might miss the bulletin she knew would come. She had been waiting all night, nerves so taut they were on the point of breaking, and now she felt that if it didn’t come soon, they might snap completely. 

_Please just say what happened and get it over with, it’s better than this awful waiting._

She hoped the conflict in her head wasn’t betraying itself on her face…there would be no plausible way to explain her worry to anyone else. They wouldn’t _understand_ …this was something she had to keep to herself, otherwise everything might be ruined.

_For both of us._

She shook her head.

_God, what is happening to me?_

“This place needs more windows.” Pamela glared critically at the blank apartment wall, balancing two potted plants in each hand. There was a leaf caught in her red hair and a smudge of dirt across the side of her face, and she seemed completely oblivious to her friend’s tension. “Not nearly enough sunlight for these poor things.” She deposited the plants on her kitchen table, tenderly grazing a hand across the leaves, and shoed Harleen off the couch. “Move. I need to make more space.”

Harleen stood up, tearing her gaze away from the television screen reluctantly. She felt exhausted, although she’d been sitting almost completely motionless for the past hour. She had been so unconsciously tense, so anxious to hear the inevitable news. 

_Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you letting this happen?_

She wished she had at least a semblance of an answer, but there was nothing.

Nothing she could say to anyone.

Not even herself.

“I’d better get back.” she finally managed, hoping her voice sounded natural. Pamela glanced over at her, and Harleen shuffled her feet nervously, wondering if her friend was suspicious. She knew nothing about what Harleen’s patient had told her, nothing about his hints—no, not hints, _declaration,_ there was no doubt of what he had said, or his intention—of a breakout…no one knew.

No one but her.

And if he succeeded, it was her fault.

_Why does everything always end up your fault?_

_Even when it’s not, really. Even when everything just thinks it is, when they think you didn't try hard enough, or you didn’t know enough…they all assume it’s your fault._

_But this time…_

She drew in a shivering breath, crossing her arms over her chest.

_This time it is._

“You okay, Harls?” Pamela finally asked, twirling an ivy vine absently around one finger and admiring the vibrant green of the plant. Harleen gulped, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Perfect. Just…tired, I guess. And I’ve got some files to work on tomorrow. Stuff for the asylum records.” Her throat felt dry and she knew her voice sounded unnatural, but she couldn’t help it. It felt like there was a heavy weight pressing down on her shoulders, and everything in the room seemed to be closing in on her. Trapping her inside. “I’ll…see you soon.” She mustered up the most genuine smile she could manage.

Pamela nodded, already absorbed in finding the proper spot for her plants again.Harleen turned to go, part of her beginning to wish she had never come to Gotham in the first place.

_Is any of this really worth it? Was it ever worth it in the first place?_

The door closing behind her seemed much too loud. Her steps, muffled by the carpet of the apartment hallway, felt deafening. She was sure everyone in the apartments around her were peering out their doors, watching her, judging her, knowing everything she was thinking…

_Stop. Just stop it. You’re being paranoid. You have to get ahold of yourself…no one knows. No one knows what you’ve done. Or haven’t done._

_You’re safe._

In her own apartment now, she went straight to the television, switching it on and flipping to the local news. There was still no mention of anything having happened, but then again, it _had_ only been about two minutes since she’d last checked.

But it would come soon enough. She knew it would.

Harleen tapped one finger against the television remote impatiently. The report on the screen blurred into incomprehensibility as her mind traveled elsewhere, repeating over and over again what could happen if word of what she knew got out.

If someone discovered she had learned what _he_ was going to do…

She pressed her lips tightly together, her shoulders so tense that they had begun to ache.

_Just happen already. Please don’t leave me waiting like this._

“It’s going to take a few more minutes before the news vans show up at Arkham.”

A voice from behind her spoke, and Harleen stifled a shriek, spinning around and blindly flinging the remote at its owner. The figure, who she realized, through the haze of terror in her head, was standing nonchalantly in the corner of the kitchen, ducked and caught the remote with one hand, laying it on the counter. “That was some reaction. You must not get a lot of visitors.”

Harleen tried to speak, but the words trembled and died on her lips, and all she could do was stare in horrified disbelief. This wasn’t happening…this _couldn’t_ be happening. It had to be some sort of dream…no, a _nightmare_ …it had to be.

She backed away, up against the wall, her face drained of color.

_Wake up, wake up, please wake up…_

“I mean, honestly.” The figure straightened up, still leaning casually against the counter, and his lips quirked into a smile. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost.”

When she finally found her voice, it was no more than a whisper. “What…what are…how did you…”

“Doctor Quinzel,” His voice was soft, unthreatening. If she hadn’t been staring directly at him, she never in a million years would have guessed it was a voice belonging to an insane serial killer. A criminal feared by an entire city…

And he was standing in her kitchen, smiling at her and not looking like he wanted to murder her at all.

_But he has to. He wants to kill me._

_Why else would he be here?_

“I’m not going to hurt you.” he said, and she froze, wondering how he had guessed her thoughts. _Was it that obvious? Or does he know you well enough by now to understand the way you think?_ She hoped it wasn’t the latter…that made it sound like their relationship was something beyond therapist and patient. Almost…almost as if _she_ was the one to be analyzed every time they met.

Which, Harleen admitted reluctantly to herself, wasn’t so far off from the truth.

“You got out.” she breathed, her eyes enormous as she stared at him. He was still in the standard-issue Arkham uniform, not the custom designed purple suit she’d seen him in for countless press pictures that had featured footage of his crimes in the past _(not_ that she had carefully gone over each one she could find for reasons even she couldn’t quite figure out herself…certainly not that). He didn’t look at all like a crime lord; the uniform hung off his thin frame like a sheet, and his gaunt face was battered and bruised, with an angry-looking gash across one cheekbone. Harleen winced, some of her fear melting away for a moment.

“What…” Before she could speak, he interrupted.

“I told you I would escape.” The smile he gave her would have been mischievously charming if it had been anyone else in the world besides _him._ Like a child playing a trick on their babysitter. “And _you_ , I see, didn’t tell anyone.”

“I…”

“Don’t say you should have. You didn’t want to. There’s no point in doing something if you don’t want to do it.” He was still leaning against the counter, examining the dishes and half-consumed cups of tea she’d left sitting there with curiosity. He picked up one, which had her nickname emblazoned across the front in red lettering, a gift from her parents one Christmas. _Harley._

Carefully, he traced the name with one finger but said nothing.

“Why are you here?” she finally asked, returning to the question that had first risen in her mind when she’d stepped into the apartment. Her patient—was he still her patient if they weren’t in Arkham anymore? she didn’t know the answers, didn’t know anything—tilted his head at her.

“Where else would I go?” he countered, as if such an option was unthinkable. Harleen felt her breath catch in her throat.

“But…why me? And how did you know where I live?”  
_What are you doing? What if the police show up…they’ll catch him here with you and you entire career…you entire life will be ruined. He’s going to ruin your life, you have to stop this…_

“It was all in your file.” He was still looking down at the cup in his hand, and Harleen licked her lips. Her mouth was painfully dry and she didn’t realize until then that her hands were clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

“My file?” She hoped she didn’t sound too scared. But who was she trying to fool…they both knew she was terrified. “What do you mean?”

He set down the cup, glancing at it, then back up at her. “Oh, Arkham keeps files on all their staff. Just like any good business operation would. It was no trouble finding yours.”

She frowned, suppressing a shiver that threatened to run up her back. His words had sparked a mental image that chilled her to the bone at the thought…the employee files mingled with those of the inmates, so mixed up with one another that it was impossible to tell which was which. Who was sane and who was…

“You realize you’re incriminating me?” Indignation had begun to surface beneath the fear that clogged her senses. Who did he think he was, showing up here after he had confided his plan to her? Didn’t he realize the danger it put them…no, that it put _her_ …in? “You’ve just directly associated me with your breakout.”

“No, I haven’t.” He looked up, catching her gaze directly. The lights were dimmed in the apartment but she could still see his eyes glowing with a strange sort of brightness that lurked behind them. “You’re my therapist, remember? Arkham would think nothing of it, merely a coincidence. I know you better than anyone else in that hellhole they call an asylum, it’s only natural that I search for you. Search for someone who I know won’t try to murder me on sight.” He cracked a smile.

“You can’t stay here.” Harleen prayed he didn’t have a gun, hoped he wouldn’t shoot her if he did. Really, she was startled at her own willingness to stand up to him. He could kill her in the blink of an eye and feel no remorse. “You…you have to…they’re going to…”

“I don’t want them to find me.” He picked up the cup he was holding by the handle, twirling it around airily. Harleen watched the movement with wary eyes, knowing his mood could shift from amiable to murderous in an instant. “Not this time.”

“But isn’t that always the point?” She glanced nervously out the window at the darkened city outside. Soon enough, they would all know what had happened. “Isn't the point of—”

“I already _told_ you this!” His voice shot up, and he flung the cup at the floor. It shattered with an ear-splitting crash, shards of ceramic scattering across the floor. Harleen’s hands flew to her mouth, holding back a cry of terror, and hot tears sprang to her eyes.

_He’ll kill you he’ll kill you he’ll kill you…_

“I don’t want to go back to Arkham.” The inmate—no, former inmate’s—voice was lower now, but there was a tremor of anger in his words. His eyes sparked dangerously, and Harleen could see the side of him that everyone else saw…the savage monster who tormented the people of Gotham, who held them hostage in their own city with his vile schemes…she wanted to run out of the room and leave all this behind. But _she_ was trapped, too, and there was nothing she could do.

“I'm sorry.” she whispered, hoping it would placate him a little. 

_Please don’t kill me._

_Please, please don’t kill me._

“I know.” He smiled then, every trace of anger vanishing from his face. It was such a genuine smile, so much warmth in his expression, that Harleen felt a sob building in her chest. She wanted to run straight to him just as much as she wanted to run away, because that smile promised _safety,_ it promised it would do whatever it took to make her happy, and that was _wrong,_ it was wrong because _he_ was the one she was afraid of.

Nothing made sense.

“I know,” he repeated, and Harleen unconsciously stepped toward him, as if drawn by a magnetic force. “You simply don’t understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I never took you for one to give much attention to seriousness.” she managed to reply, her voice shaking.

He laughed at that, the familiar laugh she’d heard so many times before, but there was a new edge to it, an _elation_ at being free, finally free, and she almost felt elated too.

_No. You’re supposed to be scared. You_ are _scared._

“I suppose not.” He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers becoming entangled in the dark green curls. Harleen watched him, half-mesmerized. He seemed so graceful, freed from restraints as he was. So elegant, every motion almost like a dancer. 

Hypnotic.

She took another step closer. 

“You’re right, Doctor Quinzel, seriousness _is_ overrated. Most things are.” He glanced appraisingly around the kitchen. “Some are underrated. Freedom, for instance. I do so enjoy it.”

Harleen had to remind herself very hard that she wasn’t supposed to by sympathetic in any way toward him. She _couldn’t_ be. He deserved…he needed to be locked up. Gotham needed him to be locked up. 

Yet somehow, the thought of him being dragged back into restraints and straightjackets made her heart twist almost painfully.

_“They think they’re locking me away, when it’s really them stuck in their own little boxes, refusing to see how much more they could all be if they only let it all go.”_

His words from their last session together echoed in her ears. And as much as Harleen hated to admit it, they were beginning to make a bit more sense this time.

They both knew the police could show up at any minute…that everything could be discovered. But here she was, practically in tears with fear and tension at the thought of such a horror, and Patient 2540 didn’t seem to care in the least. It didn’t matter to him.

Harleen almost longed for that kind of freedom.

“You know what I was thinking?” He still stood amid the shards on the floor in the kitchen, hands interlocked behind his back, staring at her. Harleen continued coming closer. She couldn’t help it…it was as if he was an irresistible force she was being pulled toward, and no matter what she did, it was impossible to resist.

The emotions that spun around inside her were equally impossible to decipher now.

She hated him, hated him so much because he was manipulating her, he was dragging her down with him, or _trying_ to, at least. He wanted her to see things the way he did, wanted her to join him, and Harleen hated him because she was starting to want that too.

Only because he seemed so very, achingly _free._

She wanted that freedom so badly.

“What were you thinking?” She kept her voice soft, trying to hide the fear that caught on the edges of he words. The soles of her shoes crunched against the ceramic on the floor, but she ignored it.

“I have always thought,” he replied, watching her like a hawk would stare down its prey, “it would be nice to not be so alone.”

“Alone?” _What’s he talking about?_ She paused, her hand closing around the corner of the counter to steady herself. “What are you saying?”

“Of course, there’s dear old Batman.” A smile, almost possessive, curled at the corners of his lips. “He’ll never leave me, I’m sure of that. We’ll always be together.”

“So you—”

“But you know, it does get a little tiring, having your one true enemy bash your face in every time you meet. Variety would be nice on occasion.”

“I thought you were a masochist.”

“I’m also a realist. I know what I want.”

“A realist?” she echoed, thinking back to the countless hypotheticals he seemed to make a habit of reciting to her every time they met. “I’m not sure I’d say the same.”

“That’s not the point.” They were so close now, close enough that he could reach out and snap her neck if he wanted. Harleen didn't notice until then that her fear had melted away. But strangely, she didn’t fight to bring it back. She didn't _want_ it back. She liked the feeling that had replaced it…a sort of thrill at the prospect of being so close to someone that was so dangerous. She had been close to him before, but he was always behind bars or restrained by a straightjacket. 

Funnily enough, she had been more afraid of him during those times.

It wasn’t that she didn’t think he wouldn’t kill her…it was as possible as anything. There was no guarantee with him…no guarantee with _anything_ he did. 

And that was part of the thrill.

_Most of the thrill,_ she half-admitted to herself. But only half. She knew she would regret this (regret _all_ of it, most likely) once it was all over, but she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to stop herself.

There was something so enticing, so intoxicating, about the feeling of freedom he exuded.

_Almost like a drug._

“The point is,” he continued, his voice so soft it resembled a purr, “it sometimes becomes a bit lonely, living like this.”

“You know I won’t.” she replied, her voice equally quiet, her stare equally steady. He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Won’t what?”

“Won’t join you.” Her nerves were completely calm now, except for the occasional jolt of her mind telling her she was in a dangerous position. She ignored that. “I would never join you.”

“Even if I was very, very lonely?” He never broke eye contact.

“You’re a diagnosed narcissist, have a wildly inflated ego, and think you’re above everyone. And you’re arrogant, which goes beyond any diagnosis. That’s just a personality flaw. You’re not lonely.” Harleen watched as he smiled at that.

“What would I have to be, for you to listen to what I have to say?”

“You would have to be someone else entirely.” She let go of the counter, her fingers twining around each other as she clasped her hands together. But she still wasn’t nervous. Not afraid, either. 

“Someone else?” She felt like his eyes were burning holes in her own. The sound of a police siren began to rise above the noise of the city outside. Behind them on the television, the words of the reporter began to come through. Harleen caught snatches of what they were saying, but it didn’t seem as important now. She turned her focus back to the man in front of her.

“Yes. But then…then you wouldn’t be you.”

He wasn’t smiling now, but there was still that restless, unrestrained glimmer in his eyes. _Freedom._ “And what would you think of that?”

Harleen hesitated. Everything in her wanted to say, _I would like that,_ or, _I’ve always hoped you would become someone different._ But the words stuck in her throat and they didn’t feel right.

They _weren’t_ right, because they weren't true.

_God, I wish they were true._

“I’m not sure.” she said finally, and the sentence burned on her tongue like acid. It almost hurt to say it, but it was honest, at least. She knew lying would do no good…he could see right through something like that. He always had.

“Harley.” His voice broke the sudden silence between them, and then fear _did_ flood back, but it was different than before. It didn’t seem to matter as much. It was only a reflex at this point, a final resort her mind was searching for to protect her from the hypnosis of _him_ that was enveloping everything else.

“Wh-what?” 

_Why did he call me that? No one calls me that…_

_No one but the people who care about me._

Or the people she _thought_ cared.

“How did you—”

He bent down to pick up one of the shattered pieces of the mug that surrounded them and passed it to her. “It was written on this, _Doctor Quinzel.”_

The name suddenly sounded much too cold, too clinical. Like a slap in the face after a kiss. Harleen recoiled from the broken piece of ceramic, letting it fall from between her fingers back onto the floor, where it splintered into two. “Oh.”

“I like it better than what _you_ have me call you, doctor.” he said quietly. 

_I do, too._

_Oh, but I can’t say that._

_I can’t, I can’t. That’s not right, it’s not proper._

But then again, she was standing in her kitchen with a convicted criminal from an insane asylum. 

Propriety seemed a little much to strive for at the moment.

“I wish you’d let me use it as your name.” 

She opened her mouth to immediately protest, but she wasn't sure what to say. Why _didn’t_ she let him use it? What harm would it do? Professionalism had gone out the window anyway, hadn't it? And if it would keep him from killing her…

“Fine.” The single word was clipped and restrained, and Harleen didn’t miss the flash of triumph that lit up his eyes for the barest of seconds. The way he inched even closer.

And she knew she hadn’t allowed this because she was afraid of him killing her.

“Harley.” He spoke it softly, like a prayer, and her jaw tightened. 

“Don’t wear it out.” she quipped, feeling a twinge of self-control beginning to resurface. _What is happening to me?_

“In any case, thank you.” He offered his hand, as if wanting her to shake it, and Harleen almost balked at the gesture, but took it without question. She didn’t realize until then it was the first time they had touched…up to this point, she had avoided contact of any kind with a strict rigidity.

“You’re welcome.” she replied automatically, pulling her hand away and dropping her gaze to the floor. She wanted to go back to how things were before, back to when she was reasonably scared of him, reasonably repulsed by the horrors he had orchestrated.

“It’s only fair I let you use mine.”

She couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at him. _I’ve told him time and time again I won’t call him by that stupid name. What makes him think this will be any different?_ “You know I won’t.”

“I don’t know anything.” HIs hand ghosted over her shoulder, barely touching her, and Harleen shivered. Strangely, she didn’t want him to stop, and when his hand fell back at his side, she gazed longingly at it, her heart aching.

Mustering a wry smile, Harleen shook her head. “That makes two of us.”

“Try it, anyway.” he urged, a spark of something nearly threatening in his eyes. Harleen remembered he was dangerous. A criminal. A murderer. And completely insane, to boot. 

_But really, who’s the truly insane one here?_

“That makes two of us, Joker.” she murmured, the words slipping off her tongue with discomforting ease. It shouldn’t have been so natural to say his name, should it?

_What’s wrong with me?_

Out of nowhere, she thought of Bruce.

Bruce, who never hesitated to take care of her or protect her, even when he made mistakes. Even when he didn’t quite understand her. He was _safe,_ he was reliant, and for a moment, Harleen wished he was here. Wished he could stand between her and this man who was somehow reeling her in some way or another, and she couldn’t resist. If Bruce was here, he could stop all this. He could bring her back to her senses.

But for now, they were alone.

“Harley—” he began, his voice as smooth as silk and his eyes like a snake waiting to attack, and then something landed heavily on the balcony outside the apartment, the impact rattling the glass panes of the nearby windows. Harleen jumped, unconsciously reaching out to cling to her companion’s arm, and he let her. She felt his muscles tense beneath her grip, but it wasn’t because of her. Glancing up, she saw his stare fixed on the curtained glass door, a unhinged, gleeful light dancing in his green eyes. 

And without asking, Harleen knew what had made that sound. She’d only seen that expression on his face a few times before. It was reserved for one person and one person only.

So soft it was nearly silent, his whisper ghosted in the still air like a breath.

“He’s here.”


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

 

“No, you _can’t.”_ Harleen tangled her hand in her companion’s uniform sleeve, dragging him back toward her. He twisted out of her grip easily, his eyes narrowing as their gazes met. “You can’t let him know you’re here.”

“He doesn’t want you, he wants me.” The Joker’s voice—yes, she admitted that she thought of him by that name now, she had been for awhile, but only now was she allowing herself to reluctantly realize that fact—almost shook with anticipation, and his stare sparked with a hunger she rarely ever saw. 

“I know, but he’ll know you were here.” she argued, voice hushed. The dark silhouette of the figure on the balcony, blurred by the sheer curtains she had hung up a week before, hadn’t moved, but she knew it wouldn’t take long. He was simply calculating his next move, and they didn’t have enough time to discuss the matter. “He’ll know, and it’ll ruin me. My reputation. I won’t…I won’t be able to see you again.”

“You’re assuming I’ll be caught again.” He winked mischievously at her, producing a knife from the pocket of his uniform and tossing it into the air before catching it lightly between two fingers by the end of the blade. “Just stay out of the way. I’d hate for you to die before the real fun begins.”

“No.” She shook her head desperately, and he paused for a moment, still holding the knife. “Please…just this once. Not here. You can’t fight him here.”

He gave her a long stare, revealing nothing in his expression but a sort of bored contemplation. Harleen felt a shot of uncertainty at that…he had seemed to engaged just moments before. Like…

Like he cared.

_You shouldn’t think that. You should never think that._

“All right.” he said softly, pulling her out of her thoughts before guilt could consume them yet again. “But this is the one and only time.” The flat side of the knife was suddenly under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His free hand latched onto her shoulder, dragging her closer. Harleen stared into his eyes, paralyzed with sudden terror. “Clear?”

She tried to nod, feeling the cold steel of the blade press tighter against her throat. Trying to ignore the distant thrill of danger that lingered beneath the fear. “Crystal.”

“ _Excellente,_ mon cherie.” he grinned, pocketing the knife and stepping back. Harleen shivered. “Guess I’ll show myself out, then.”

Wordlessly, she pointed to the door, and he gave her a showman-like bow, backing away and slipping out into the hall. 

“Ciao.”

She still said nothing, every breath labored in her chest. Her throat burned from the touch of the knife, although it hadn’t broken the skin. One hand moved up to press against her neck, but she didn’t have time to think anything over, because the momentary silence was broken by the sound of the balcony door sliding open.

Harleen bit down hard on her lip.

_It’s him._

She’d seen footage of the vigilante on television before, of course. Her mind flashed back to that night on the rooftop when he’d flitted past her, right when she had first moved to Gotham again. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of, she told herself…she was innocent. She hadn’t been involved in the breakout, not at all.

_Even if he told you he was going to escape and you did nothing._

The man outside her window didn’t need to know that.

There was a flutter of heavy material as the dark shape stepped inside. Harleen stared, petrified, as the eyes behind the mask fixed themselves on her face, scrutinizing her. The creature’s—she couldn’t bring herself to think of him as a human—gaze immediately darted to the broken mug on the floor, pieces scattered around her feet. 

“Harleen Quinzel.” 

She flinched at the sound of his voice, intentionally distorted by some kind of mechanics, and backed up against the wall. Her face was still flushed from the exchange between her and the Joker just moments before, and she hoped her expression wasn’t giving her away.

“Y-yes…”

“The Joker broke out of Arkham Asylum tonight.” His eyes fixed themselves on her face again, and she stared back, heart pounding in her chest. 

_He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have to know. Let him find the Joker himself. That’s his job, isn’t it?_

The masked man remained silent after his statement, waiting for her reaction. Harleen cleared her throat, bending to pick up some of the ceramic shards on the ground. 

“Oh.” _No, don’t sound so apathetic. He’s your patient. You should be concerned._ She ducked her head, piling the pieces in her hand. “I…I had no idea…”

Batman tilted his head toward the television. Harleen realized with a jolt of horror that she had left it on. Sure enough, a photograph of the escaped criminal was plastered across the screen, the reporter’s voice hurried as she gave the details of the breakout. 

“…until just now.” she tacked on at the end, straightening up again and cupping the broken pieces of the mug in both hands. “I just got home.”

“Do you know anything about this?” There was something about the way he looked at her that made Harleen uneasy. As if he knew too much about this whole situation…as if he knew too much about _her._

_Don’t tell him anything._

“If I knew anything, I would tell the police, wouldn’t I?” she retorted, maybe too sharply. Her hand curled possessively around the shards in her hand and she flinched sharply when one of the edges cut into her palm. Glancing down, she saw blood welling up along the edges of the cut. 

“Would you?” the man asked, his eyes never leaving her face. Harleen glared at him indignantly. 

“Are you accusing me of something?” She knew she sounded too defensive, but she couldn’t help it. Not when her nerves were teetering on edge like this. 

“Not accusing you.” he replied quickly, taking a small step toward her before thinking the better of it and drawing away again. His eyes still continued to search her face, and although he kept his choice of words neutral, she knew he was thinking hard. Trying to figure her out. Trying to figure out how she was involved.

As if he just _knew._

_Who are you?_

Harleen narrowed her eyes at him. “Sounds like an accusation to me.”

“It isn’t.” For a moment, there was a note of sincerity in his voice. “But I need to know where the Joker is—”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Her voice shot up, and she could feel the heat creeping across her face again. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

“I didn’t say that.” There was a new look in his eyes now, a glimmer of realization that unnerved Harleen even more. She felt like he was staring straight into her mind, dissecting every piece of defense she had put up, probing for the truth.

And finding it.

_He knows you’re lying._

“Why did you come to me?” she whispered, the cut on her hand beginning to sting. She ignored it. “Why did you think I would know anything?”

He didn’t speak for a long minute, and she could feel panic welling up in her chest. This was it, he was going to produce some piece of evidence that would ruin everything, ruin _her._

_Goddamit, just get it over with._

_Just tell me you know._

She felt a flash of irrational hatred toward the vigilante as they stared at one another in the silence of the apartment. Why was _he_ the one who was able to break down her mind, not the Joker? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t he be the good guy? 

Shouldn’t she be more afraid of an escaped madman than _him?_

_Maybe that’s your fault,_ her mind whispered, and Harleen’s jaw tightened as her anger toward Batman doubled. He really _was_ destroying her mind from the inside out, he was forcing her to face the things she feared and tried to hide. 

It was _cruel._

And how did he know so much about her? How did he figure out that she may have something to hide? Sure, she was the Joker’s therapist, but why not question the guards? Why not question Leland? Why not the orderlies or the warden or the janitor, while he was at it? 

Why _her?_

_Why did you think I would know anything?_ The question she had spoken aloud echoed itself in her head, accusatory and sharp.

When Batman finally spoke, Harleen flinched.

“Just a hunch.” His voice was low, controlled. Emotionless. Or so he wanted her to think.

But Harleen couldn’t miss the hint of something she couldn’t identify hidden beneath his words.

_There’s more to this than he’s letting on._

_He knows more than that._

She got the feeling that he had known the Joker was here the entire time, and this was just his way of finding out if she was willing to lie about it. 

Almost like he wanted her to be in even more trouble.

God, she hated him.

_He’s supposed to be a hero. You’re not supposed to hate him. All you’re doing is letting your emotions get the better of you…that has to stop. You have to stop._

Harleen lifted her chin, not letting her gaze waver even as every thought in her head was tainted with burning guilt and growing worry that she would betray her involvement in all this. The vigilante didn’t speak again, but she could see, for the briefest of moments, a flash of genuine concern in his eyes. It was too dark to see those eyes closely, but there was a strange familiarity there that made Harleen almost regret her anger toward him. 

Almost like some part of him truly cared, even as he was trying to expose what she had done.

Or what she had allowed to happen.

“Your hunch was incorrect.” She nodded to the door without even bothering to look at it, a signal for him to leave. “If you don’t have anything else to say to me, I’d like you to get out of my apartment. I never said you could come in, and I could have you arrested on grounds for trespassing.” It was a ridiculous threat, considering the GCPD’s complacency with this man doing whatever he felt like around the city, but it made her feel a bit better.

Batman followed her gesture with his eyes, examining the open door still swinging on its hinges from where the Joker had made his escape just moments before. His gaze hardened for an instant, but Harleen didn’t notice.

But when he turned back to her, she did see a glimpse of something dark in his eyes. Something that made her catch her breath with the intensity of his hatred, but it wasn’t directed toward her. He didn’t hate her.

She didn’t know how she knew that, but she was certain it was true.

The darkness in his expression was for something else.

“Please.” she whispered in the ensuing silence, and his stare snapped directly to her face, searching even harder than before for unspoken answers. Ones he didn't seem able to ask. Harleen didn’t want to know why. She just wanted this to be over. “Please, leave.”

He inclined his head the slightest bit, taking a small step backwards. Harleen didn’t move.

The curtains around the balcony door fluttered in the breeze, brushing against the corners of the cape that hung from his shoulders, blacker than night itself. In the darkness, he looked like some sort of ghost. Harleen wondered if he was even human.

She felt bad for it. There had never been any question in her mind if the _Joker_ was human. And yet here she was, demonizing the man who was supposed to be Gotham’s protector.

“Be careful, Harleen.” he said quietly, backing away slowly until he was out on the balcony again. The cape caught in the wind, billowing out behind him. “You have to be careful.”

She said nothing, only watched as he disappeared over the railing into the night below without a sound.

The moment he was out of sight, she dropped the pieces of the broken mug back to the floor, where they split into smaller shards. Ignoring the sound, she ran across the apartment, slamming the balcony door shut and pushing the curtains forcefully together as if that would barricade her safely away from any further intruders. Her breathing was ragged and panicked in her throat now, and she stumbled back up against the wall, her eyes never leaving the window he had disappeared out of.

_He knows your name._

_He knows where you live._

A cold shiver rushed up her spine, and she pressed one hand to her mouth, feeling suddenly dizzy. A fear much more intense than the wild, uncertain terror she’d felt around the Joker welled up in her, clouding every other emotion as she sank down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning back against the wall. She didn’t notice how the blood from the cut on her palm had stained her lips when she’d touched her face, as every thought was swallowed up in that dark, creeping, guilt-ridden fear.

_He’s been watching you for a long time._

 

\+ + + + + + + + + +

 

The Joker spat blood at his rival, and the latter’s gloved hand came up to dash it away from the exposed half of his face. He reached for a stun gun he kept clamped to his belt, but the criminal darted forward, twisting it from his grip and tossing it over the edge of the roof they stood on. The sound of the weapon clattering to the floor of the alley below echoed in the wordless silence between them as they both paused, staring each other down. 

“Gettin’ clumsy, aren’t you, Bats?” Joker grinned, his teeth stained with blood. The vigilante didn’t speak. “Or maybe you aren’t fighting to win this time. ’s that it? You don’t wanna send me back to Arkham so quick this time, you want more time for some _fun!”_

“You’re going back to Arkham _tonight.”_ the other man growled, the mechanical distortion of his voice even further altered by how low he pitched his words. The Joker shuddered in anticipation as he backed up along the edge of the roof, every muscle in his sinewy body coiled to spring, like a predator readying itself to pounce on its prey. His grin dripped with blood from where he’d been punched in the mouth, contorting his face into a truly hideous sight. But his green eyes gleamed as bright as ever, taunting the vigilante with every step.

“Am I?” he asked coyly, tilting his head to the side as he spun around on his heel, balancing precariously on the edge of the roof as he locked eyes with the other. “But I don’t _want_ to, you see. I have so very many things to do out here, and one can’t possibly work as efficiently from a straightjacket. There is substantiative proof to back that up.”

From beneath the mask, Bruce tried to control his breathing and not let the madman’s words affect him. He knew this was the Joker did, he tried to bait people, and he was good at it: trying to get a rise out of his enemies and goad them into accidental submission when they lost their tempers. It was what he did to everyone, what he had done to Bruce since the beginning, what he did to the GCPD officers when they were bringing him back to the asylum each time, the reason why Arkham had cycled through so many therapists for him… 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the real underlying reason he was here.

“I’m not playing this game with you.” he said sharply. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it won’t work.”

“Seriously, that’s all you’ve got? Jeez, get a copy of _Witty Banter for Dummies_ or something, why don’t you? You’re no fun when you’re stupid.”

Bruce stepped closer, and the Joker danced further away. He’d exchanged his Arkham uniform for his signature purple pinstripe suit, and had been wearing a matching fedora before he’d run into Bruce as Batman half an hour earlier. It had been lost somewhere along the way…the clown had led Bruce on a chase through the city, but the latter had sensed something different about the usually routine process. It almost felt as if the Joker was truly trying to run away this time. 

And that meant he was planning something bigger than the usual cat-and-mouse plots he crafted.

Bruce didn’t want to think about what that plan involved, but he knew he had to find out. For the safety of Gotham, he had to find out.

“What is this about, Joker?” he gritted, and the clown raised one eyebrow at him, pulling at one leather bloodstained glove. 

“What’s what about?”

“You don’t want to go back to Arkham this time.”

He tugged off the glove and tossed it over the side of the roof, licking blood off his knuckles. “Sweetie, when do I ever want to go back to Arkham?”

“You usually don’t mind. Now you’re actively trying to avoid it.”

“Hate the new therapy.” Joker shrugged. Bruce shook his head.

“That’s not it. Not all of it.”

“Fiddlesticks, you know me too well.” He kicked a pebble across the roof, watching it skitter into the darkness. “If you must know, I’m a changed man. I don’t want to be a criminal anymore.” He pulled a face that looked eerily sincere. Regret shone in his vibrant green eyes and he even conjured up a small tear that ran down the side of his face. Bruce shuddered. “Please, give me a chance.”

“So there is a plan. And you’re trying to stay out of Arkham for it.”

Like magic, the Joker’s face transformed back into its usual grinning visage, maliciousness sparkling in his eyes. “Told you, I hate the new therapy.”

“I’m going to find out what you really want.” Bruce continued to advance upon him, cape catching in the wind. The Joker bounded away, out of reach. 

“Then I wish you the best of luck, my dear flying rat.” he called over his shoulder. Bruce didn’t let him out of his sight. He was beginning to formulate a plan to force the truth out of the clown, but he had to be cautious. Had to take his time. The Joker was indisputably clever, and he could see through a strategy on the vigilante’s part in the blink of an eye.

But Bruce had to know what was going on in order to take him down.

“You’ve been laying low.” His voice carried on the wind, and the Joker winked at him, lounging against a water tank. He held a spring switchblade in one hand, thumb hovering over the button, and Bruce knew it would be dangerous to approach him. The criminal wanted to escape, and he wasn’t above fighting dirty for it. Bruce was a much more accomplished fighter, but the Joker’s lightning reflexes and complete disregard of safety made him a force to be reckoned with, especially when he was on the alert like he was now. And Bruce wasn’t one to rush headlong into a situation even if he believed he had every chance of winning. It was best to wait things out and see what happened.

“That’s not like you.” he continued, staying where he was. The Joker shrugged, clicking the switchblade open and running one finger along the edge of the knife. 

“You know what they say, variety is the spice of life.”

“Not when it comes to getting attention. For you, at least. You aren’t one to stay out of the spotlight.”

He sighed. “Batsy, don’t you ever realize how taxing it is to be cultural influencer like me? Sometimes we’ve just got to take a break now and again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. The only thing you influence is fear.”

“Ooh, now _you’re_ the flattering one.” the other laughed. “Really, Batsy, I’m honored you’d say such a thing, it’s very sweet of you."

“Don’t mention it.” Bruce knew he had to get the criminal to relax, to drop his guard. He had a decided advantage…no one else could even hope to outsmart the Joker, but Bruce had been able to on multiple occasions. He thought it was maybe because the clown would find himself caught up in the thrill of the chase, and sometimes that would get the better of his senses. It wasn’t often, and it usually wasn’t enough to stop the Joker from whatever massacre or other heinous act he was plotting, but Bruce knew it was at least possible.

And now was as good a time as ever to try.

As _vital_ a time as ever.

He just had to get the criminal to talk about himself. The man was a certified narcissist and egomaniac, and he couldn’t stand it when he wasn’t the center of attention. That was, after all, what had alerted Bruce to the strangeness of his elusive methods surrounding this breakout. And when the Joker was involved in talking about himself, Bruce knew he would, more often than not, unwittingly spill at least one or two aspects of his plan that could be used against him.

“The Ace Chemical plant is still untouched.” He paced back and forth on the edge of the roof. The Joker watched him, running the blade of his knife over his tongue. “That means you’re not making it your hideout again.”

“Well, duh. If I don’t want to get caught, why would I camp out in the very place those idiots at the GCPD would come to find me first?”

“Amusement Mile hasn’t been occupied either.”

The Joker looked up at Bruce from under his lashes. “You’re trying to get me to tell you where I’m staying? If it makes you feel any better, the answer is nowhere.” He chuckled. “Can’t get caught if no one knows where you are at any time. Moving from place to place is the life for me. Guess you could say I’m a bona-fide hobo.”

Bruce knew it was most likely the truth, and he also knew he was on the right track to getting the answers he wanted. “I find that hard to believe, considering that the entire city is looking for you. Hiding isn’t really an option.”

“Believe what you want, I don’t care.” He flipped the knife in the air, catching it deftly. “I’m not the one looking for validation in everything I ever do. Unlike _some_ people.” He looked pointedly at Bruce, who kept his expression impassive beneath the mask.

“I’d say you’re the one looking for validation. Hasn’t your therapist told you that?” It was time he made his final move. It was risky, based solely on a feeling he had (and didn’t want to have) but he had to try it.

_For her._

_Her safety._

_For her life._

“Incidentally, I almost had you the other day. When you were at your therapist’s apartment.”

The Joker laughed, crossing his ankles as he continued to lean against the water tank. “But you didn’t catch me. Kudos to her for stalling for me, eh? Gotta say, I trained her well.” He looked smug, but the expression was gone in an instant, replaced with a flash of anger at himself for saying too much. Bruce caught it before it was, in turn, replaced with a smile, and knew with a sinking heart that he’d gotten the information he needed.

And it was definitely not the information he wanted.

“Funnily enough,” the criminal was saying, trying to divert the conversation, but Bruce interrupted, his eyes flashing with rage,

“Do _not_ bring her into this, do you understand me?” In three quick strides, he had closed the space between them and grabbed the Joker by the shoulders, pinning his thin frame against the concrete tank behind him. The clown’s hands latched around the vigilante’s wrists, making a quick attempt to free himself, then let go.

“Ooh, touched a nerve, didn’t it?” he mocked, spitting in Bruce’s face again. The latter didn’t flinch. “What does she mean to ya, Batsy? Do you _know her?”_ A knowing gleam shone in his eyes.

“That’s beside the point.”

“You couldn’t know her like I do. I know everything there is to be known about that fascinating little mind she has. When all’s said and done, she’s not much in the grand scheme of things, but still,” he chewed dried blood off his lip, “an amusing toy to play with.”

“That’s why you’re evading capture. This has to do with H—” Bruce caught herself in time, “with Doctor Quinzel.”

“You can call her Harley. _I_ do.” he said reassuringly. “I already know about you and her, Brucie boy. I know every single little thing. She’s told me all of it.” Leaning forward until Bruce could feel his hot breath on his face, the Joker whispered, “And you know why?”

Bruce didn’t wait to hear the conclusion of that question. He slammed a gloved fist into the criminal’s face, causing the latter’s head to snap back and then loll to the side. A wheezing giggle broke past the clown’s bloody lips, and he produced the switchblade from where he’d quietly stowed it away in his pocket. Too fast for the eye to follow, he reached up, swiping it at Bruce’s exposed lower face, and the vigilante stumbled back, narrowly missing his mouth being cut open. The Joker took the chance to disentangle himself from the other’s grasp, and was racing across the open roof a millisecond later, pulling a gun from his belt and sending a round of bullets flying toward Bruce, who dove behind the water tank as a shield. 

Tossing the gun over his shoulder once it began clicking empty, the Joker skittered down the fire escape and leapt down the final three steps, landing on his feet in the alley below. He paused a moment, staring up at the rooftop and catching his breath after the sudden sprint, then turned and melted into the darkness, not leaving even a footprint behind.

Bruce landed in the alley moments later, but he knew it was too late. There was no way to track which way the man had gone, no way to know where he was planning to go, and it was too late to try and find out.

 

\+ + + + + + + + +

 

“You look tired, Bruce.” Harleen glanced up at her companion over the rim of the coffee cup she was holding, savoring the bitter flavor on her tongue. Her eyes felt heavy from lack of sleep—the past few nights had been restless for her, nightmares and worries pressing in on all sides—and she hoped she could disguise the fact by turning the conversation to Bruce instead. 

He gave her a tight smile, swirling a stirring straw around in his own coffee and staring down at the surface of the table between them rather than meeting her eyes. “It’s been a long week.”

“I’m sorry.” she said sympathetically, laying one hand over his where it rested on the table. He glanced at it and she wondered if she was coming on too strong…oh, who was she kidding? This was a date, he’d specifically called it a date when he’d asked over the phone if she wanted to meet for coffee before work, and she was perfectly within her rights to commit to an act as simple as an innocent touch. It wasn’t like she was climbing onto his lap trying to make out with him, right? And he was Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy…her methods probably seemed beyond tame to him. “Lots of meetings and things like that?”  
“I think the tension in the city is taking a toll on everyone.” he replied, and she noticed he didn’t pull his hand away from hers. That meant he didn’t mind, or at least she hoped it did. Maybe he was just being polite and he didn’t really have any feelings for her whatsoever…

_Shut_ up, _you’re literally on a date!_

_If he didn’t have feelings, neither of you would be here._

She didn’t want to think about feelings, though. The subject reminded her too strongly of what had happened the other night. The emotions that had crowded her brain, left her wary and uncertain and, worst of all, afraid that they were something more than the confusion of the moment. That she had genuinely felt that exhilarating rush of pure fear and pure excitement, that feeling of being unleashed from the cage she was locked inside. 

Feeling _like him._

She knew she would never feel that way around Bruce. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that was what she should want. Maybe it was what she _did_ want, and she would come to her senses soon enough to see that. Really, she wasn’t sure she could trust herself for quite a while yet. Not after what she had done, what she had said…

What she _hadn’t_ said.

But there was no denying how she had felt in the moment. Even if she didn’t have the words to describe it.

She realized Bruce had spoken and she hadn’t replied, and her face flushed. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He took another sip of his coffee, although it was still steaming and likely a scalding temperature. “Just that there’s so much tension in Gotham at the moment.” He met her eyes for an instant, like he was looking for something in her expression. Harleen stared back.

“Tension?”

“Regarding the breakout.” He took another sip. Harleen felt her heart jump for a moment but didn’t let it show on her face. “Situations like these usually result in multiple escapees following the lead of someone else, so there have been greater security measures around the city, and of course those always come with suspicion from the people.”

“Right.” She was the one not meeting his gaze now. “Of course.”

“It usually doesn’t take this long to bring him back.” Bruce shook his head, setting down his coffee cup. The chatter of the people around them crescendoed in Harleen’s ears, and she bit the inside of her cheek as her nerves began to break through again. 

_Don’t. There’s nothing you need to worry about. He’s not involved in this, anyway._

Her mouth twisted.

_But he’s Bruce Wayne. He’s involved in everything in the city. Or likes to think he is._

She was expecting the typical speech he’d give her on how she shouldn’t work with the Joker anymore. How she was making a mistake and should listen to him and wasn’t experienced enough to deal with a criminal of that level. Sure, he’d promised her he wouldn’t go over that again, but she knew by now that Bruce was a stubborn man, and he wouldn’t give up on a subject until he knew the matter was settled. In Harleen’s opinion, it _was_ settled…she wasn’t going to give up this job for what _he_ wanted, not even after what had happened the other night. Not after she’d been uncertain if anything would go back to normal again.

That night was part of the reason she knew she would go back. 

Just to feel that elusive, frightening, _addictive_ rush again.

To feel _free._

Even if she knew it would all come crashing down around her if she gave in.

“Most of the time, it’s just a big game to him.” Bruce continued, not seeming to notice the conflict on Harleen’s face. But then again, he was avoiding her gaze. As if he was trying to say something, but kept skirting around the matter until he could work up the inspiration to say what he really wanted to. “And part of the game is to—”

He broke off, his stare darting up to Harleen, who was staring at him in confusion. She had been too lost in her thoughts until that moment to truly process any of what he was saying, but his last sentence had confused her.

_It’s just a big game to him._

Why would Bruce know something like that?

_How_ would he know?

And why would he care?

She realized he had said something moments before, something she had only halfway processed because of how consumed she’d been in her own thoughts. 

_It usually doesn’t take this long to bring him back._

Harleen blinked.

“What are you talking about?”

Bruce stared down into his coffee cup for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the handle. A waitress of the diner they were sitting in came by to set down the bill on the table, but Bruce didn’t look up. Harleen frowned…that was uncharacteristic of him, to say the least. He usually made a point of being grateful, or at least charismatic. It was part of that Wayne charm.

But now, he seemed to have transformed into some other person entirely.

“Bruce?” she tried again, slowly pulling her hand away from his. “Do you—”

“Sorry.” he cleared his throat, looking up quickly at her. “I just…guess my mind went on a tangent there.” He laughed, but it sounded almost forced. Harleen tilted her head, wondering where this sudden facade had come from. She wanted to chalk it up to tiredness, or worry for the city, but that didn’t seem to be an adequate explanation. “Like I said, it’s been tense lately. And I’ve been doing research on the arrest patterns for the Joker, trying to gauge when he might be captured. Guess it’s been on my mind a little too much, huh?” He picked up the coffee again, taking a gulp of the cup’s contents. 

Harleen gave him a long look, still mid-attempt at figuring out where the other’s sudden shift in demeanor had come from. “Yeah. I’d say so.”

“You don’t know anything about it, do you?” Bruce looked at her steadily, the question spoken with an almost abrupt tone, and Harleen recoiled, taken aback. Any confusion from the moment before was swept away by seething anger, and she balled her hands into fists. 

“Do I _know_ anything about it?” she echoed, eyes flashing. “What, you mean did I help him escape? Did I conspire with him to break out of the asylum? Am I hiding him somewhere safe from the cops and that damn vigilante who broke into my apartment the other night just because I happen to be the therapist to the…to the escaped patient?” The name _Joker_ had been on the tip of her tongue, but she caught herself just in time. “Did you know that, Bruce? Did you know that _Batman_ was there? No, you don’t. You don’t know how it’s been for me.” Her voice wavered and she placed her hands flat on the table, palms smacking against the linoleum surface to emphasize her point. “Batman was at my _house,_ threatening me…”

“Harleen.” he interrupted her quietly, laying his hand over hers this time. She jerked her hand away, glaring at him. 

“He was practically _accusing me,_ Bruce! He really thought I would go so far as to protect a _murderer!”_ A sob caught in her throat and her eyes shone with tears. She didn’t care that she _had_ allowed said murderer to remain in her apartment longer than the usual person would, and she likely would have let him stay longer if the vigilante hadn’t appeared. That wasn’t the point…it didn’t mean she was guilty of anything. It didn’t mean she was at fault for his escape…

All she had done was not tell anyone.

She had just let it happen.

_It’s just one breakout. One damn breakout. As if that really matters to anyone. As if this city will care about a few lives lost. As if anyone will care. Gotham’s see worse._

She flinched at her own thoughts. They didn’t feel like they were hers, didn’t feel right in her head. They felt cruel, and cold, and removed from humanity. Like it truly didn’t matter what happened when the Joker was free in the city.

_Because it doesn’t._

_In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t._

She gritted her teeth.

_Stop it. Stop it. Focus on the conversation. Don't think like that._

“He was trying to protect you.” Bruce’s voice was still quiet, but he gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white, and he was staring at her with the most serious expression she’d ever seen on his face. “It’s his job.”

“Maybe this city needs to stop obsessing over a man who thinks he’s entitled to breaking and entering whenever he gets the urge. You want me to answer your question, Bruce?” She got to her feet, staring down at him furiously. “The answer is no. I don’t know why the Joker broke out. And I don’t know how. That should be good enough for you, shouldn’t it? Or are you some kind of detective now who thinks they can deduce the truth from the things I say or don’t say? Do you _want_ me to be guilty?”

“I don’t.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“You’re saying you don’t know anything.” Bruce stood up too, never letting his gaze stray away from her face. Harleen’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m his therapist, I know everything about _him_.” She didn’t notice the way Bruce’s expression changed at that for an instant before going back to normal. "But it’s not like I keep a schedule of his planned escape dates.” Her tone was scathing. “And my point was that I don’t appreciate Batman breaking into my apartment when I’m alone to follow up on some stupid hunch of his or whatever he calls it.”

“ _Were_ you alone in your apartment?” Bruce asked, his demeanor never changing.

Harleen froze for an instant, her mind blanking. He was contesting her claims…her unease was growing stronger every moment, although she tried to mask it with anger.

_He knows something._

_Somehow, he knows something._

Bruce wouldn’t break his gaze. 

“Why wouldn’t I be alone?” she finally retorted breathlessly, and he was silent again, studying her face. She tried to look away, but it was as if he wouldn’t let her. She was caught in his eyes, ensnared like a trapped animal, wildly flailing to escape before it was too late.

_You’ve gotten yourself into this mess._

_If you’d only reported what he told you about the breakout…_

But it was too late for regrets.

“I was alone.” she said tonelessly, surprised at how easy the lie came to her. Almost as if she believed it herself. Bruce still said nothing. “I was alone, and I don’t understand why you don’t believe me. I don’t see why you think—”she paused as he caught her hand in his, tangling their fingers together, and she found herself holding on, because although she was angry at him, he was the only consistent thing she had in her life and she couldn’t bear to give him up. Not when everything else was teetering on the brink of destruction all around her. Not when there was no certainty of any future, anywhere. 

She had to hold on to him.

“I don’t see why you want to know anything about the Joker.” _No._ “My patient. Or me. Or who we are when we’re together.” She hadn’t meant to say that last sentence, but there was some part of her, deeply hidden, that wanted to tell Bruce everything. Wanted to confide in him the way she felt like there was a fire being lit inside her mind whenever she was around the madman, even as she felt like she was being torn apart by the insanity he tried to corrupt her thoughts with. The awful, insane logic that never truly left her mind, even after he’d likely forgotten it.

Wanted to tell him that she _had_ let him stay in the apartment. How she had felt so hypnotized by his presence, how she had wanted the freedom he had, craved it, had been willing to do anything to get just a glimpse of that freedom for her own.

How she had known that the Joker was the only one who could give it to her.

She wanted to tell Bruce how it was the closest thing she’d ever felt to…

_To love._

The very word made her stomach churn.

She knew love wasn’t supposed to feel like that at all.

_You’re insane._

She couldn’t tell Bruce any of that.

“Besides,” she added, trying to make up for her slip a moment ago, “it’s nothing you _need_ to know, either. I have a right to keep the nature of my relationship with my patient confidential.”

“I understand that.” Bruce said evenly, and Harleen wished she could look away, but she was caught beneath his intense gaze like an insect on a pin, “I…”

“I know.” The anger began to drain away. It was too tiring to keep it up. And pointless…they always went around and around in circles with this argument, never coming to a conclusion. Wearing the start of whatever connection they were supposed to have thin. Except this was different, because they both knew there was more on the line. They both knew who was at the heart of the matter.

And that man was now free in Gotham, ready to strike when neither of them were prepared.

“You just have to be careful.” Bruce held on tighter to her hand, enveloping it in both of his. “Please.”

She sighed, shutting her eyes for a moment as she realized just how tightly the tension and stress had wrapped itself around her mind. The words Bruce spoke, nearly identical to the ones the masked vigilante had the other night, whispered themselves over and over in her head.

_You have to be careful._

She wished she could take those words to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments, I appreciate any kind of feedback :))


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